Simon Says Youre Out
by Punny GEM
Summary: SG-1 struggles to get Jack home from Adel, where he was brutally enslaved.  Herbs used on Adel to heal his injuries cure the pandemic spreading on Earth.  Millions of lives are at stake; Earth will do anything to save itself.  Even hand Jack back to Adel
1. Chapter 1

~oOo~ Against His Will

"Daniel, if you knew –" Jack O'Neill stopped himself, regaining control with difficulty. He took a deep, somewhat shaky, breath. When he spoke again, his voice was husky with emotion. "If you knew what these people have done, you would, you'd understand…"

"I do understand, Jack. I know they did some terrible things." Daniel Jackson didn't get any further with his objection; his friend had turned away. "You can't let them be burned alive!"

"What are the alternatives?" Teal'c asked calmly, trying to keep the discussions on track. The coup had happened with impressive speed, and any new government had to be better than the last, so he was determined to help things along.

"Re-enlistment in the service?" a voice offered timidly. The idea was met with silence. Everyone here re-enlisted when their eldest child came of age, doing it a few years early would be fairly trivial.

"An eye for an eye," a voice spoke up from the crowd watching the newly formed council debate.

The idea quickly gained favor among the former slaves in the city, many of whom offered to help implement the practice. Some opposed it as too cruel, or too likely to result in more citizens who needed permanent help from the government.

An older man tried to mediate. "Give them a choice. Burn with your building or have done to you what you did to mayree."

"A choice!" This speaker was heavily disfigured, possibly from the somewhat common practice of leaving mayree out in the burning acid rain. SG-1 had taken some of the victims to be gargoyle statues before realizing the truth. "Who here had a choice?" he spat the question.

There was no answer, in word or movement.

"If you had been given a choice, who here would choose the burning building?"

That got a response, hands going up all over the room. Daniel turned, looking at the number of hands, amazed. When he turned all the way to his right, he saw Jack, who had moved a few feet away to end their conversation.

Jack was staring straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with anyone, his expression pained as he relived some terrible memory. His hand was raised.

Turning back, Daniel realized it was the same all around. The former slaves all stared ahead, with heartbreaking expressions, nearly all with their hands raised. The free men varied. Some had their hands raised, resolute or sad looks on their faces. Others did not, but those were either curious or appalled, clearly the ones who had no idea just how the slaves were broken.

The disfigured man who had suggested a choice pointed out those very expressions. "Look at the faces of the uninformed!" he cried. "See the surprise at the number of hands, see it turning to horror as the realization sinks in." He turned slowly, pointing at various people as he did. "This is why we must offer the choice, and we must do it in front of all the citizens. When the handlers choose the fire, it will speak for justice louder than any voice, it will show the atrocity better than any other action we can take. Even if they choose the other, people will see what has been done to create mayree."

oOo

They gathered the citizens before the first of the slave compounds, closest to the center of the city, and announced that the structure, and the others like it, would be burned to the ground. The news was met with cheers. The crowd eagerly piled kindling around and splashed flammable chemicals on it and the walls.

A group of people, mostly men with a few women mixed in, was herded to the front of the crowd.

Rilla, a member of the new ruling council, stepped forward. As a former slave, he had been chosen to speak at this event. "You were Mayree Handlers."

The group shifted uncomfortably but remained silent. They had been the ones responsible for taking newly captured prisoners of war and turning them into slaves. They were so vicious in their methods that the hardiest soldier would break in a matter of days. The trauma was so great that victims could rarely recover to independent lives, and spawned the saying "once a mayra, always a mayra." With slavery now abolished, and their argument that they were merely providing a necessary service getting a poor reception from the new council, one-third of whom had been on their way to becoming mayree, they waited to hear their fate.

"You are Handlers no more!" More cheers erupted from the crowd at that, and he waited patiently for them to quiet. "The new government of Adel gives you a choice," Rilla told them. "You may burn with your compounds, or you may endure what you did to your own mayree, after which you will have the same opportunity as they to become free citizens."

They were given a few minutes to consider, while the mayree broken at this compound came forward. They would be given the honor of lighting the fire that burned it to the ground. If the handler chose life, they would do to him what he had done to them, with the crowd allowed to watch if they chose.

"Calla, come forward!"

A curly-haird man shuffled out from the others, looking terrified. He threw himself at Rilla's feet and begged for mercy. Having shown none to the people he enslaved, none was returned to him.

One of Calla's former slaves separated from the waiting group, limping forward in the odd gait of "sport mayree" whose Achille's tendon was damaged to allow for unfettered resistance to a rough master's pleasure while preventing actual flight. His hair was roughly shorn, and what remained was reddish with silver tips, giving an appearance of frozen fire. He dropped his cloak as he approached so that he wore only the short kilt and sandals of mayree on display. There were painful-looking bruises on his body to match the one on his cheek, and he paused, turning to show them to the crowd. He tensed his back muscles, and flaying scars whitened against his tanned skin, clearly visible to all. "See the mercy of Calla!" he shouted. "He told me I was one of the lucky ones – let him have such fortune!"

The crowd went wild, and others of Calla's former mayree approached. Some partially disrobed to show the marks of their breaking while others hid them by hunching in their cloaks. A few carried various objects, showing them to Calla in obvious threats to use them on him as he had done to them. A trio clad in yellow approached, pulling off the bright capes and throwing them toward their former master as if to cover him. He dodged as if the saffron cloth were acid; whatever the color signified, he wanted none of it for himself.

Now on his feet, surrounded by reminders of his own past actions, Calla crept slowly toward the compound. He sobbed in terror as he looked for the last time at the door of his compound, his piteous wail only increasing when he turned away to find his former slaves beckoning him to experience their fate instead.

There was a move to stop him, to force him to endure what he had done to his mayree. Calla again appealed to the new council, this time reminding them that they said they prized asking over demanding, and had offered him a choice. He wept as he pleaded for the chance to enter the building, lying on his belly, palms down in the mayra gesture for mercy.

In the spirit of the New Order, of asking for a choice instead of demanding an action, they granted his request.

It was the same at all the other compounds. All but one of the handlers chose to burn with his or her compound. Daniel was stunned.

Jack wasn't. "If you knew," he said quietly, watching the last building burn.

Daniel turned to him. "Tell me, Jack."

Jack tried the humorous escape. "I could, but if I told you, I'd have to kill me."

"Jack!" Daniel objected with annoyance, then stopped, realizing what he'd heard. "What?"

"I said, if I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"That isn't what you said. You said if you told me, you'd have to kill *me.*"

"That's exactly what I said I said."

"Get off it, Jack," Daniel was getting annoyed at the diversion. "You said if you told me, you'd have to kill yourself."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't."

"You'll have to tell Hammond and the psychiatrist, you know."

"Not this time." His head was turned back to the building but his eyes were distant, no longer focused on the flames dancing before him.

"You have to, or you can't go back to active duty!" Daniel was worried now. He wanted Jack home, of course, but he wanted him "home" as in back-on-the-team, too.

"Did Morgan tell?"

Daniel pursed his lips, remembering how Hammond had called Morgan into the glass-walled conference room on at least two occasions about it, and those were just the times he knew about. The second time, Hammond had eventually raised his voice to her, clearly frustrated. She held fast, though by the end of that encounter the hard-as-nails Morgan sat with her head bowed, doggedly shaking it in the negative. Her teammate Finney had told him that the whole team had been all but interrogated on the subject since the Air Force was worried there was a fearsome new weapon involved, but only Morgan knew. "No," he admitted.

"And neither will I. I can't risk it. What if someone else did the same thing?" He shrugged his shoulders slightly, as if throwing off something unpleasant.

"Jack, the chance that you'd be a slave again, and that that person would know what happened here is a million to one."

Jack looked at him directly now. "What if someone found out about it first?"

Daniel's eyes widened. "You mean, deliberately do it to you again? To make you do something for them?"

Jack turned back to the fiery view. "I have my uses, Daniel. Skills and knowledge that some people value. And not everyone has your morals to limit how they'd get access to them." He waved a hand at the burning building. "I'd rather be in there."

oOo

Teal'c stepped under the warm shower, letting the water rinse from his shoulders down. He swept a last glance around the communal shower before ducking his head under. It was empty save for himself and O'Neill. His friend was thinner than before – the results of poor food and little exercise – but otherwise intact physically. He still displayed the wariness and exaggerated focus of one who was hunted, remnants of his ordeal here. What he really needed now was to be home again, and hopefully that would happen soon. Sensibly, it should have happened already.

Over slave-breaker Keyna's dead body – literally – O'Neill had taken Baron Honna captive and SG-1 had been on the brink of departure. But when a mayra child had been callously injured just to move her out of their way, O'Neill had hesitated, wanting to help the slaves before leaving. They'd tried to talk him out of it in a hasty whispered debate such as they sometimes had before making a major battle decision. There was extreme danger in O'Neill remaining on this planet after killing his former captor and almost no chance that the four of them could make a lasting change in a whole society. O'Neill had agreed to that sad truth but could not bring himself to simply walk away. Daniel Jackson had tried to find a middle ground by suggesting they take the child and Carter's animal home with them, which had earned a glare reminiscent of a child being offered a sweet in exchange for his pony. O'Neill had settled for giving the other mayree one opportunity. He ordered Baron Honna to free the slaves.

Those who had been here any length of time simply cowered, terrified to take action. The newer ones, though, recent POWs from the ongoing war with the neighboring city-state and not yet fully broken to slavery, had leapt into action. They knew full well there was a standing army in the field just outside the city, and time was short. There would be no running back to their original home town because both sides held to the belief that "once a mayra, always a mayra" and they'd just be re-enslaved there. They took the only sensible action – they overran the armories at the center of town with sheer numbers and used the weapons in a coup. Teal'c had been impressed by the speed and efficiency of the takeover. O'Neill had been surprised that there had *been* a takeover – he confessed later that he expected the unbroken mayree to throw themselves at the army and escape enslavement through death. The statement showed that O'Neill was closer to having his own spirit broken than were the people he freed, and Teal'c had tried not to think about that as he watched the revolution proceed.

Every adult in the city had military experience, but they did not carry weapons around. They were quickly rounded up and set between the former slaves and the army outside the city as a barrier. The army prepared to siege its own home base, but at the same time, its traditional enemy in the nearby city-state was massing an attack to take advantage of the quandary their opponent was in. The army had been prepared to negotiate, and fast. Three civilians, three military leaders, and three emancipated slaves had represented the major parties. Teal'c, Daniel, and Carter, believed to be emissaries from the long-cut-off city in the mountains, had been the moderators. O'Neill had been a not-so-innocent bystander. To the former slaves he was a hero, to the shocked civilians he was a villain, and to the military he was an uncertainty. They were warily neutral toward him, hopeful at the thought that the future might be different but leery that he had an ulterior motive waiting to be unleashed.

Time was short, and they had made a lot of progress. The nine would be the new ruling council, with some rather draconian measures in place to ensure their safety. There would be no mayree slaves anymore. They had all been granted equal citizenship, with those who were able finding work or enlisting in their army. Those who were unable to recover from their past enslavement would form a worker-class to handle menial tasks, but they would be paid, share group homes if necessary, and have laws to protect their rights.

The new council sent a treaty to the enemy city-state, offering a new condition. They would trade POWs back, alive, immediately after each battle. The armies of both sides would suffer less attrition, so the forces would grow to have ever more glorious battles. Over time, it might even become possible to allow older people to retire alive from service, returning to the cities to help grow them as well.

It had been a very satisfying three days, certainly, but he would still be glad to leave. SG-1 did not dare assume they were safe here with so much radical change underway, and travelled all together or in pairs even to the showers. He and O'Neill had decided to wash simultaneously, minimizing the overall time away from the others; Samantha Carter and Daniel Jackson took turns facing the door while the other showered. He soaped his face and after another quick glance around, ducked back under the water to rinse.

"Freeze!" The command was accompanied by the metallic sound of weapons activating, and the uneven drumbeat of many charging feet.

Teal'c stiffened, glad he had been in the act of raising his hands toward his face so that they happened to be in a convenient position to engage in battle at the first opportunity. Someone moved, very close to him, and he tensed, trying to sense details so he could counter the coming attack.

The water stopped, and the person stepped away.

Teal'c opened his eyes to find a half dozen armed men lined up shoulder-to-shoulder. They wore masks above the black jumpsuits of the former slave class. He kept his hands where they were, not having been told to move, but also not wanting to be ordered to move them to a less advantageous position.

"You," the speaker indicated O'Neill with a jerk of his weapon.

Teal'c saw surprise, fear, and then resignation flicker across his friend's face before it became expressionless. O'Neill started to go down into the crouch of a slave, clearly assuming, as Teal'c did, that these men had been sent here to reclaim him as a mayree, probably to be followed by punishing him for starting the revolution. Or perhaps they had come simply to execute him.

"On your feet!" one of the others, second from the left end, snapped.

O'Neill straightened, but showed no relief as it was now more likely he was to be taken away for a slow death than given a quick one here. With the healing properties of the local herbs, a man could suffer a very slow death indeed. Teal'c took two swift strides and put himself between O'Neill and the others. Probably useless, but he had to try. The fact that they had not shot him down the instant he moved was a good sign.

"You will not take him," he said with all the authority he could muster naked and unarmed.

"There are no mayree here anymore," the tall masked man told him sternly. He stepped forward out of the line. "And you will not take him to be one in your mountain city."

"Agreed."

The other man was surprised at the reaction. The hooded head cocked to one side. "You aren't going to resist us taking him?"

"He is my friend, not my slave," Teal'c corrected. "I will resist my friend being taken anywhere he does not wish to go."

"How can you stop us?" Another man waved at their bare bodies. "You have no weapons now."

That explained the choice of timing.

"Guys, I appreciate this," O'Neill stepped forward, but only halfway. The fact that he remained partially hidden not only conveyed that he did not trust the altruistic claims of the hooded men, it also spoke volumes to Teal'c about the man's feelings about a potential recapture. "I really do. But Teal'c's telling the truth. He's my friend, not my master."

"I do not believe it," the tall man said. "We have been watching. He does not make you serve him publicly but he has not allowed you to be alone for even a moment."

"True," Teal'c agreed. "You are warriors," he nodded gracefully at them, giving them their due respect, "and you understand caution. Would you leave your friend alone in dangerous territory? There has been a recent coup, of which we were a part. None of us have travelled alone since, and none of us will."

"Are you sure it's not because you don't want to lose the silver-haired brown-eyed male you so desired?" the tall man mocked.

"You are Calla's so-called 'Fresh Catch.' Do not deny it; only a few others were present when I said that." He did not have the slender build of the youth nor the magnificent physique of the other adult, and the trio's former master was now ash within the ruin of his training facility.

The tall man whipped off his mask. It was indeed the "fresh catch" that had been offered to Teal'c as a slave, though he'd hacked his silver-painted hair off short and reddish roots showed under it already. He was also the man who had displayed his wounds to the crowd and urged that his former master Calla should suffer the same instead of being permitted to burn with his building.

"He considered pairing us," the man waved at himself and O'Neill, his voice accusing Teal'c of his intent. "I have had enough vain battles and cruel conquests. No one will suffer that again as long as I breathe." The words confirmed Teal'c's suspicion that the man had been rented out by his master specifically to engage in unfair combat until he surrendered physically and sexually.

"Then may you breathe for many more years," Teal'c told him solemnly.

Again, the man was taken by surprise, but still he was not convinced. "You speak nicely here under threat, but where were the kind words when you asked Calla to send me to you for your pleasure if this one," he waved again at O'Neill, "was not found in a day?"

The other men shifted uneasily, either uncomfortable with the subject or the amount of time they were spending on what should have been a quick in-and-out extraction.

"Should I tell the master that I wish his servant to become my spy?"

The man scoffed. "What kind of spy can a mayra be?"

Teal'c arched an eyebrow. "The best kind. The ruling class speaks freely in a mayra's presence, giving away valuable information with the foolish assumption that he is helpless. You also could instruct me on the ways of slavery, the better to help find my friend. As a personal servant, it would not be unexpected that we spent time alone together."

He was considering. "Why me?"

Teal'c looked him in the eye. "Your master rented you out to violent customers on a regular basis," the other man's gaze flicked away for a moment in pained admission, "yet you were not cowed by the experience. You are brave and strong, a survivor."

"Perhaps you speak the truth," the tall man said slowly. "But we will not take chances. He comes with us. If he is truly your friend, you will watch him go and be glad in the knowledge that he will live the life of a free man."

"I don't want to go with you!" O'Neill objected, still half behind his friend.

The door banged open and a dark blur streaked through with a squeaky roar. Gonzalez hit Jack square in the chest, knocking him to the slippery wet floor. A heartbeat behind him, a larger shape dove for Teal'c's knees with the same intent. Teal'c dodged neatly, slipping to the floor on his own and even managing to cushion Carter's fall.

In the doorway, Daniel took a stance, siege weapon in open view, and primed for action. With his friends down out of the way, he had a clear shot at all the attackers while they no longer had the other men in their sights. "Freeze!" he bellowed.

Five of the men obeyed, including the unmasked one. The sixth took aim at Daniel.

Daniel turned his weapon directly on that one. "Feel lucky, punk?" he drawled.

The mask faced him for a moment, then sighed and surrendered. He started to go down into the slave's crouch before switching to a defiantly upright posture.

Carter and Teal'c exchanged a glance, a silent assurance from each that the other was unharmed. The colonel was still down, a gallant little beast standing guard duty on his chest with teeth bared at the black-clad men.

"Protect from in front of him," Carter said quietly, urging Gonzalez down to the floor. She turned to O'Neill. "Are you ok, sir?"

"What did you say?" The hooded man asked it sharply.

"I asked him if he's ok." She stood to face the attackers, and Teal'c stood with her, both of them between O'Neill and the others while keeping Daniel's line of fire clear. Gonzalez lined up alongside them, four-inch long baby fangs bared.

"No, what did you call him?"

She'd spoken automatically, not thinking about cover stories. Had she just given away that he was a high-value target? There wasn't anything for it now, one or more of them might remember and not trust anything further she said. Plus, he had been the target in the first place. "I called him Sir." She looked around at the black covered heads. "It's just an expression of respect," she began, hoping to offset any harm she'd done.

"We know what it means." They backed off a couple of steps to whisper among themselves.

"I'm sorry, sir," she whispered. "I didn't mean to give anything away."

They heard that, too.

"We believe you," one of them announced. "No one calls a mayra "sir.""

The un-masked man stepped forward, addressing himself to O'Neill. "We will not take you," he said. Sweeping his gaze across all four members of SG-1, he added, "but know that if they harm you, we and others like us are all around to help."

Teal'c stepped forward, offering his hand. "It is an honor to know you, sir." The other man hesitantly accepted the handclasp. "I would like someday to earn your full trust that we may call each other 'friend,'" he was deliberately being formal to show his respect. "For today, may I know by what name you call yourself?"

The man straightened with pride. "I am called FreeMan."

"An excellent name. FreeMan, I am called Teal'c." He wished he could share his own history with this man, to show that he understood the quest for freedom, the pride in achieving it, the determination to keep it and gain it for others like him.

The others did not want to be named, or un-masked.

"It is understandable," Teal'c said, bowing his head to them. "Know that you have my respect, even if I do not recognize you if we meet again."

They left as quickly as they had come, still too cautious from prior experiences to trust much. SG-1 could hardly argue the feeling – even though the threat was over, Daniel kept watch on the door and Carter murmured battle advice to Gonzalez while Teal'c and O'Neill dressed quickly.

"How did you know to come?" O'Neill asked. He'd finished first since Teal'c had the additional step of strapping on his siege weapon.

"Gonzalez heard from all the way down the hall. He said a door slammed then someone gave a sharp command in the local language, so we started to come and check. Then he heard Teal'c say 'you will not take him' and we knew to expect a fight. He and I were to take you and Teal'c out of the line of fire. He knows not to stay on top of you now." She rubbed behind his round ear and the little beast gave a soft trill of pleasure.

"Good job, Gonzalez. Thanks," O'Neill patted the animal's back, then wiped his hand and offered the towel to Carter, who did the same. Teal'c stepped up, ready to go.

As they left, O'Neill turned to Daniel. "Feel lucky, punk?" he repeated incredulously.

"Hey, it worked for Dirty Harry." His words were casual, but he blushed nonetheless.

"True." He paused just for a moment. "Dirty Dan."

Daniel turned through the door at that moment, but Teal'c could see the ghost of a smile on his lips. The affable linguist would enjoy being linked to Clint Eastwood's memorable character.

~oOo~ Uneasy Truths and Uneasy Truce

Jack was enjoying his first reasonably-good sleep since arriving in Adel City. It was the third night since he'd forced Honna free the slaves, but the first had been taken by the revolution, and the second too filled with wary disbelief that he and the others were truly free. Only now, and mostly due to sheer exhaustion, had he fallen asleep. Events intruded even there, but at least the dreams were positive.

He'd dreamed of the moments after killing Keyna and taking Baron Honna hostage. The rahi-beast trainer Blenna had been present, having stopped by to pay his respects to the Baron on the way back from training animals in the field. No doubt he'd heard of the visitors from the mountain city and taken advantage of the chance to meet them. Blenna had also taken advantage of the fact that he still carried the device he used in the field to silently communicate with his servants during competition. His slave Tarmo had taken the cubs-in-training back to their barn, and Blenna summoned him back. With his pair of adult male hunting rahi.

Jack smiled in his sleep as he relived the moment. Tarmo approaching with the huge animals, trying to show them off on the assumption his master was going to sell one. Blenna giving the command to attack just as Bruto recognized Jack and leapt toward him. The beast was gleefully shouting thanks to his friend, but the bellow sounded like a hunting cry to Blenna, who smiled in anticipation of being the one to rescue the Baron. Only the embarrassment of Bruto calling him "half-breed" had kept the full grin off Jack's face. The look on Blenna's face as Bruto joyfully licked Jack had been absolutely priceless.

"I could use your help here, buddy," he'd whispered.

Bruto, with a sharp-toothed grin reminiscent of a shark, happily stood on Jack's left, ready to act. He was still giddy with the joy of Jack curing the long-standing pain in his teeth, and used his long prehensile tail to tap his friend on the right shoulder, playing the same "made-you-look" game Earth children sometimes did. Jack rewarded him with a chuckle, but did not turn his head from the action in front.

Bulleto, Bruto's father and an even more impressive hunter, was standing soberly between Jack and Tarmo. He had only one question: was it true what his children were even now screaming about? Did the humans *eat* rahi? SG-1, courtesy of the Stargate, could understand and be understood by the animal. To Blenna, Baron Honna, and his wife, it would have just been a long and suitably menacing growl.

"Yes." Jack and Teal'c answered together.

Bulleto snarled so viciously that even his gums showed above his wickedly long fangs, a wordless roar of anger, before turning and racing for home, bellowing to his family that he was coming for them.

"Can he get through doors?" Daniel had asked quietly.

"Bruto here bit through a three-inch-thick wall," Jack murmured back.

Daniel looked at Bruto with new respect, and Bruto raised his head in pride. In sleep, Jack's smile widened a bit at the sight of them both.

"He really sleeps like that?" the voice was surprised, and amused. "I thought it was just to keep the flies off since they made him sleep in the dung heap."

Jack, startled awake by the voice, then dismayed that the speaker had revealed his sleeping location to his team, closed his eyes and sighed. He had been sleeping in the fetal position, but face down, which kept his hands, face, and belly mostly protected. He hoped the others would remember that he'd been in the same position when they woke him at home after the rogue Asgard had abducted and cloned him, that they would think it was common for him when he wasn't in a sleeping bag on a mission. In reality, it usually happened during or after periods of extreme danger, his body unconsciously moving to the safest possible position.

Another voice answered the first. "You'd sleep that way too if every man, woman, and mayra was beating the crap out of you all the time."

Jack appreciated the defense, but wished it hadn't come with more information he didn't want known. Time to get up before anything worse came out. He rose quickly, sneaking a quick glance at his team.

They all just happened to be looking elsewhere, which meant that they felt awkward about what they'd just heard. Good old Teal'c was quick to change the subject, asking why the visitors had come.

Packs of rahi were marauding in the darkness outside. There'd been one attack already, and several close calls. The animals were not as intelligent as humans, but they were hardly stupid. They were learning their new human prey's escape tactics, and it probably would not be long before serious injuries occurred. SG-1's remarkable ability to communicate with the beasts had been noticed, and the messengers had risked their own safety to ask if SG-1 could help.

Jack glanced at the others, not willing to offer if it meant that the visitors would be left alone with any of his team. Sticking together had had the added benefit that he knew no one had told them how he was being controlled. He had no concern that his friends would ask about it, but what if the newcomers said something unprompted, like the comments they'd already made about sleeping in the dung pile and everyone hitting him all the time?

"I'll go," Teal'c offered, taking a step forward. Carter joined him, Gonzalez alongside without even being asked. They checked their siege weapons, just in case, and headed out.

"Gonzalez, what do your kind call our kind?" Teal'c asked.

"The others are Partners," he said, the word automatically translated in their minds. "We share our prey with them and they share their dens with us."

"The others?" Carter asked, glancing down at him. "Do you have a different name for us?" She indicated herself and Teal'c.

"You are Half-breed." Gonzalez cocked his head as he thought about it. "Partners treated Jack like a Rahi, but he can speak to Partners and Rahi. Your breeding is perhaps a little more Partner than Rahi since they don't treat you like Rahi. Are you from a different litter than Jack? Who is your sire?" He craned his neck up at them. "And why are your ears so tiny?"

Carter smiled at the concepts. "All four of us are from different, um, litters. It's natural for us to have tiny ears. We can't hear as well as you, but we are good with our hands." She flexed her fingers for him.

They stopped talking as they reached the door to the outside, and heard the distant shouting. It took a moment for Carter and Teal'c to separate the Rahi voices from the Partners. They exchanged a glance as the words sank in. It seemed humans were "Partners" no longer. "Killers" seemed to be the replacement term.

Gonzalez spoke first. "It is good that you are from different litters. You can mate and create more Half-breeds. You'll need a bigger pack."

Carter, startled, dropped her gaze back down to him.

He misinterpreted her reaction, reassuring her that she could feel safe to breed, loyally offering to help guard her and her cubs when her males needed to hunt.

"Um, thanks," she began.

"There are more urgent matters at the moment," Teal'c reminded them. "Let's call to them."

"Call to them?"

"Why not? They understand our words, and they will not mistake our approach for us hunting them." Teal'c turned his head toward the street before them. "Rahi!" he bellowed. "The Half-breeds would like to talk. Please come this way!"

Gonzalez added his little voice in a long trilling cry. "I am a Rahi, and can smell the honesty of the Half-breeds."

They repeated a few times before the first shadowy shapes began to appear. The rahi approached as a pack, some directly ahead, others circling to the sides. Carter and Teal'c stayed near the wall. Asking to talk was one thing, letting a dangerous predator slip behind was quite another.

Three of the largest approached, one facing each of the group that had summoned them. "What do you want? And why should we listen to you?"

"We wish to avoid violence, and help to communicate between the races," Teal'c said, as seriously as if he were dealing with any other military leader.

"Why should we avoid violence? They have eaten our brethren!" he roared back. "The Killers should die!" The night air vibrated with rumbling growls; there were far more rahi in the shadows than the handful they could see.

"Because if you hunt them now, they will hunt you, and the circle will continue forever," Teal'c replied.

"They should die for their crimes!"

"You probably can't kill all of them," Carter put in. "There are a lot of them, and they have a variety of weapons. Even if you do get them all, there will be heavy losses on your side."

"There are alternatives," Teal'c put in quickly. They needed to keep attention on something beneficial to the rahi or this negotiation would fail.

The lead animal glared, but the one next to him at least asked. "What?"

"We can work out an alliance," Teal'c suggested. "You take over the hills, and hunt freely. Take your excess to an agreed location. They will take your excess prey and leave you," he hesitated, not sure what the Partners could offer now that shelter was not an option.

"You see? There is nothing they can offer us!" The big beast began to back away, not about to turn his back on them any more than they would turn theirs to him.

"Wait!" Carter said.

They paused.

"Um, uh, what about… what about winter? When it gets cold? Will you be alright?" They were cold-blooded, likely to either hibernate or die if the temperature dropped too low. Even hibernation could now be fatal, if the humans hunted them as the animals slept. She'd hit on something; the rahi stopped, staring at her. "Uh, what kind of shelter do – did – they give you before?"

"We slept in the shelters they build of trees, in straw with others of our kind."

"Then they can trade you straw," she offered triumphantly. "You've gone to the caves, right? To keep out of the acid rain?" Some dubious looks indicated that in their anger the four-legged rebels had not thought of shelter at all yet. "Look, it makes sense," she leaned forward, eager to persuade them. "You find caves to sleep in – the stone will keep the wind and rain off, and the badgers can't tunnel up under you. You leave extra kills and they leave straw, maybe in bales or bags or something you can move."

The rahi were muttering. Some commented on cubs needing shelter while others said the Killers had to die and the Rahi would find some other shelter on their own.

"Why don't you try it?" Teal'c suggested. "You can always go back to killing them later, but if you start out killing them, it will be very hard to return to peace."

There was discord among them. Teal'c and Carter waited patiently. Gonzalez cocked his head as he tried to understand the mature concepts being debated around him.

Voices, human voices, became audible over the low thunder of the gruff rahi. A group of human fighters had spotted the large rahi pack.

"Go, quickly!" Teal'c urged. "Do not fight now. Tell us tomorrow of your decision."

"How do we know you won't tell them where we will meet so they can prepare an ambush?" one demanded.

Teal'c actually chuckled. The answer to that was simple enough. "We understand you. They do not. You need only come within earshot of us and shout out a location. We will come to you."

The rahi laughed aloud at that, and the humor of it seemed to help soften their anger. They vanished into the shadows before the humans came into range.

~oOo~ Finally, Farewell

Teal'c maneuvered himself toward one side of their "honor guard." In truth, the 60 men were much more than that – even in the few days SG-1 had been here, there had been several attempts on their lives as the new reality sank in. Civilians and military alike were having to pay for work formerly done by slaves, or do it themselves, and the change was impacting everyday life in a myriad different ways. The majority of people were taking it in good humor, relieved that they themselves would never be slaves even after re-enlisting, and might even survive their second army stint to retire to their families. They laughed at themselves as they swept or cooked or fetched or carried for the first time, joyful at the new and longer futures ahead of them. There were some who were having a harder time adapting, however.

Rahi breeders, of course, were all out of work with the animals now independent in the fields and some had tried to act on their anger over that. The businessmen with the hardest and dirtiest work were not as cheerful to take it up personally as those whose wares involved lighter or more pleasant efforts. The makers of footwear also had somewhat of a grudge; the truce with the rahi had a specific exception for any human found wearing rahi hide, and the cobblers were scrambling to find another material. Most of these found non-life-threatening ways to show their displeasure. For instance, sewage handlers would reverse the flow so that when you flushed in any building SG-1 entered, a torrent of raw sewage spewed up. It shortened SG-1's visits to any building considerably, and may have made even the happier city dwellers willing to see them go sooner rather than later. A small number had worse things in mind, however, and a few had come close to killing their targets. If it weren't for the amazing healing herbs, they may not all be walking to the gate today.

Teal'c reached his destination, a place near the one who called himself FreeMan. "I am honored to have you among our escort, sir." The man's chin rose an extra inch at the title. Teal'c was happy to give this tiny bit of pleasure to one he felt such kinship with.

"I am honored to be here, sir," he returned. "You have changed our world."

"It is you yourselves who have changed it," Teal'c pointed out with concern. They must not believe freedom came from outside, or else it may not last after SG-1 left.

"You are the ones who freed us," FreeMan objected.

"We were merely the catalyst. We made Honna say the words to free you. You did the rest. And it is you who must hold what you have won. Keep your freedom, and spread it where you can." Teal'c said it loud and clear so that many of the honor guard would hear.

"Won't you be coming back?"

Best to leave that open ended. "I do not know. We will bring back what we have learned, and the city leaders will decide." They were nearing the gate. "Hold what you have won," he repeated. "If I do return, I expect to find you still a free man, FreeMan."

FreeMan grinned. "You will!"

Teal'c inclined his head, and stepped to the DHD with the others. Carter bent to whisper her goodbye into Gonzalez's round ear and he trilled his answer. Jack gave the slimy shoulder a squeeze. Teal'c and Daniel said their farewells to their temporary little teammate.

Teal'c turned slowly, one hand raised, and loudly wished them all, human and rahi alike, the best of luck. He repeated his message that they had won their own freedom and it was up to them to keep it. It was ironic, in a way, since he, Samantha Carter, and Daniel Jackson would in all likelihood lose their own freedom when they returned to Earth to face the consequences of their actions. Even O'Neill, whose body would not be incarcerated, would not be free of the demons from this place for quite some time.

Carter, Daniel, and Jack bowed their heads after their city leader spoke, and with that simple ending, they walked through the gate.

~oOo~ Just when you thought it was safe

"If there's anything I can ever do," he left the offer open. Jack had just thanked Colonel Morgan for everything she had done. She'd led the team that proved he was a slave and not a traitor, of course. But it was what came after that they were really talking about, even if neither cared to discuss details. She was the only other person on Earth who knew how they had controlled him in Adel, and she had not told anyone else, despite serious threats to her career and even her freedom. The only thing that stopped them from following through was her own decorated history and the fact that Adel was on a faraway planet; if there was any continuing contact with those people, the powers that be would stop at nothing to know so they could prevent it from happening to anyone else.

"You can give me $385.17," she said dryly.

He chuckled. "Uh, sure." Small price for what she'd done. "Do I want to know why?"

She grinned openly at him. "I may have drugged the Gate watch officer during the Christmas party so I could send SG-1 through the gate to Adel."

He gaped, then laughed. He could picture it.

"In return for him not pressing charges, I took him and his girlfriend to that fancy new Mountain View restaurant. Double-date kind of thing, so I could be there to pay. They tried to be nice when they saw the actual prices." She tilted her head and gave him a look of absolute disgust. "Nineteen dollars for a salad, and it was served *in a shot glass.* I'm not kidding! The girl had to order something else or she'd leave hungrier than when she got there. My date ordered bowtie pasta. Cheap and filling, right?" She gave a sarcastic 'uh-huh' kind of nod. "There were exactly five bowtie noodles on his plate. Count them, five! Artfully drizzled with a half teaspoon of sauce. For the bargain price of $28.99. Salad extra."

"Wow. Hope the view was good, at least."

"They advertise that its something unique, that you won't get anywhere else. And it's true. One wall is actually the bare rock of the mountain itself, and *that's* what the view is."

They both ended up laughing. Almost four hundred dollars to look at a rock and be fed enough food to hold you till you drove to McDonald's on the way home.

A hubbub in the halls caught their attention. Everyone in sight was talking and gesturing and hurrying. Morgan stopped a lieutenant to ask what was going on. She literally collared him as he rushed happily by, but the man was in too good a mood to object to it.

He smiled hugely, a combination of excitement and relief. His face was flushed and his words came out quickly. "The found a cure! They found a cure for the plague! Herbs from that planet where Colonel," he paused, realizing who was standing next to her, and sobering. Jack had been horribly abused there, and Hammond had let it be widely known in order to make it clear he was a prisoner and not a traitor after he had foiled the first rescue attempt. "Where you were, sir." After a moment with no more questions, he rushed off, quickly regaining his joy at the end of the plague.

Morgan and O'Neill just stared at each other as the implications sank in. The obvious thing was to buy the cure while you learned how to make more yourself. Someone would have to go back to Adel. And they'd want to know how O'Neill had been controlled before they did.

Until now, they'd held out on the grounds there was no reason to return to Adel anyway. Now there was a compelling, planet saving reason to explain what had happened. How could they not? How could Jack live if they did?


	2. Chapter 2

~oOo~ When Best Efforts Fail

General George Hammond sat in his office, alone. It was late, he should have gone home long ago, but he hadn't been able to send the report. Technically, he had until close of business to send it. And technically, since he worked all sorts of odd hours, the brass in Washington couldn't insist that business had closed before midnight. That was only ninety minutes away, but he felt he had to wait, to make sure there was every possible chance for someone to come up with an alternative, some way to use what they had learned about curing the pandemic without exiling O'Neill. When time ran out, he would do what he had to do, just like the others had. They'd all done what they could, in their own ways, and they'd all failed.

Captain Carter had done her considerable best, but she had not been able to avoid it. The disease sweeping the country was becoming a full-out pandemic. People were dying all over the planet and scientists of every sort were focusing on finding a solution. In a desperate risk, the very day they returned, a member of his own medical staff had given the healing herbs brought back from Adel City – where Colonel O'Neill had been so brutally enslaved that the address had been removed from the dialing system – to a dying patient. It worked, and the excited scramble began to replicate the concoction. The medical teams were the first to fail; try as they might, they could not synthesize a working version of the cure. Four components of the complex mixture eluded them.

That was where Captain Carter had jumped in. She'd helped with the efforts, of course, all along. When the herbs from Adel City became involved, she'd also taken an extraordinary interest in each of the others involved in the effort. Somehow she knew who to encourage, who to order, and even who to harangue to push each one to their ultimate efforts. He suspected that some of the other officers must have given her insight into which person responded to what incentive and let her do the dirty work. She'd quickly gained a reputation as either an angel or a devil, depending on who you asked, but with the extra pressure, they'd managed to recreate two more ingredients. That still left two they couldn't produce.

Dr Jackson had come to him, clearly distraught, pacing and waving his hands between emotionally charged words. Hammond remembered the man's anguish when he'd recounted O'Neill's slip of the tongue. "If I tell you, I'll have to kill me." O'Neill was afraid someone would learn how he'd been controlled in Adel City and do the same thing again to control him here. Jackson was afraid O'Neill would suicide to prevent any possibility of that, just on the news that a team had to go back to Adel City to bargain for the remaining two ingredients. He had good reason for his concern, but what could Hammond do about it? The herbs had to be obtained to save lives, lots of lives, here. And the people who knew O'Neill's secret, the other slaves freed when he was, were now part of the general population of the city; there was no way to ensure that a visiting team would not learn how the man had been controlled.

Even Colonel Morgan had come to him. She'd been more pragmatic about the whole thing, if one set ethics aside. She offered to lead a team through a military takeover of Adel City, and if necessary, the neighboring enemy city as well. She would coordinate the creation of a new government while every possible citizen was kept busy harvesting the herbs that Earth needed. By the time Earth had enough of the herbs, a democracy would be in place. Happy endings all around. She knew it would not be as simple as she painted it, and that she wasn't even the most logical person for such a command if they undertook it, but Hammond appreciated the support her offer represented. Her option would be an absolute last resort since it would take longer than just buying what they needed and the critical crops could be damaged during a battle.

It was already too late to stop events anyway. Or it would be in sixty-two minutes, when Hammond sent the file to Washington. His eyes were directed to his computer screen, but he'd read and re-read it so many times he could recite it by heart.

Teal'c had come, of course, offering to take his friend on an epic journey through countless gates and via borrowed starships before dropping him off to live out his life in obscurity on some distant planet. O'Neill had seriously considered that, and might well go for it as long as he felt sure he could never be found. This was Hammond's recommendation as the last step of the mission, sending his friend into exile. Some reward for O'Neill after saving Earth yet again.

O'Neill. The man had emotionally shut down before Hammond even talked to him. He'd been eerily matter-of-fact as they devised a plan to first use his knowledge to help Earth then remove him from it forever. O'Neill would advise the team sent to the planet, drill them on protocol; the social rules were too complex and the mission too important for it to be otherwise. He would not go himself, officially due to the mixed reception he'd receive in Adel, though the psychologists had also warned of the danger to O'Neill's mental state. Whatever had happened in that place had affected him profoundly, and he would go to any lengths to avoid even a *chance* of a repeat.

He had solid grounds for concern. The military had been keenly interested to learn how a man with O'Neill's reputation had been controlled to the point of foiling his own rescue, but there had been a built-in assumption that it required alien technology. When it came out – in the email Hammond had to send within just thirty eight minutes now – that the means could be recreated on Earth without advanced technology, attention from political and military alike would skyrocket. There would be intense pressure from military, political, and intelligence agencies to learn the secret for potential use against Earthly opponents.

It was also perfectly feasible that someone would take advantage of the immediate opportunity and use it against O'Neill, if they figured out the details or just convinced him they had. The Colonel had high security clearance, and might be forced to share sensitive data. A country lightly impacted by the pandemic might try to change the balance of power on Earth by making him spoil the negotiations with Adel so harder-hit nations would be badly hurt. His military skills could be put to use by making him an assassin for immediate political gain, or just as a demonstration of control. He could be pressed to suicide simply as revenge from some enemy he'd made during his long career.

Hammond knew his superiors would agree that it was crucial that O'Neill be protected from even the verbal threat of control. The Colonel himself concurred: he had warned with haunted eyes and a hollow, emotionless voice that the mission should proceed with all possible speed since he would not survive being compromised.

O'Neill had helped choose a "consistency officer," a man whose duty was ostensibly to monitor the details as the Colonel instructed the field team and catch any discrepancies before they impacted the mission. He would indeed do that. But his main, not really covert, mission was to keep O'Neill alive and safe until this was over. No one would be allowed to speak to O'Neill alone or take him anywhere against his will. O'Neill had asked, and Hammond had given, a direct order that the consistency officer would kill O'Neill himself if it came to that or him being taken by force. Hammond suspected that O'Neill would have given the order himself in any case.

O'Neill had chosen carefully. Dexter Potts was a former military man turned civilian, with the training and mindset for the job but a bit less control from the chain of command; he could be fired but not court-martialed. He had the mindset for that possibility, too; he was not a risk-taker by any stretch. He would be sure to have as many fail-safes and insurance plans as possible. Potts' file stated that he had once approached the psychiatric staff with a concern that he was developing a gambling problem when he had switched from drinking regular Pepsi to the cherry flavor when the fruity version ran a contest on its bottle caps. They assured him that as long as his two-bottle-a-day habit didn't increase dramatically, he could consider himself stable, and duly noted his extreme aversion to risk.

Hammond had done what he needed to do there, capitalizing on that, warning Potts that there was a credible threat and exhorting him not to gamble the fate of Earth on anyone getting to his charge. No other risk could top that ultimate peril. Potts was now fully engaged, and no threat of violence, job loss, or anything else would slow him from defending O'Neill and through him, Earth.

Potts was doing his part, and so far the only one successful. He'd spent the last few hours turning the quarters he now shared with O'Neill into a veritable fortress. Sound and motion detectors inside the door would back up the live sentinels on the outside while they slept. The old glass-bottle-balanced-on-the-doorknob provided a manual third backup. Hammond had given them an exception from the general rule that only MPs and arriving/departing teams carry weapons, and the pair were fully decked out for dangerous field work, with knives in boots and belts, sidearms at shoulder and thigh, and who knew what else in their clothing. Hammond wouldn't be at all surprised if Potts had insisted O'Neill wear body armor under his uniform. There were various weapons stashed all around the rooms – only Potts and O'Neill knew where – so something would be ready at hand no matter how an unexpected battle unfolded. Captain Carter had made a comment about it being like the scene in the TV series "Rome" when the two men prepared a home for an expected attack by hiding weapons on door-frames, under tables, behind decorations, everywhere they could think of. Instead of cracking a smile, Potts had shown her his new watch, the kind Jennifer Lopez had worn in the movie "Enough." Where hers had squirted mace, his would spray a mist that would seize up the victim's throat, rendering him unable to talk and barely allowing breath. He would stop anything that sounded like a threat before it could be voiced. An enemy who couldn't breathe would be easily captured for interrogation, but if it turned out to be simply a poor choice of words by a friendly, that individual could consider it a warning to be more careful in the future. He was loading a pair of clown's water-squirting boutonnieres with more of the same so they could avoid the delay of raising their wrists if they needed quick action. Copies of "Mercenary Monthly" were scattered on the table as well as DVDs of action movies and even "Inspector Gadget," all ready to provide Potts with more inspiration. The General had charged him with protecting Earth in the person of the one man with the information to do it, and Potts did not intend to fail.

Hammond didn't want to fail, either, but how could he not? He checked his watch again. Only twenty-seven minutes before he had to send the report. The official file still read only that O'Neill had been forcibly controlled by opposing personnel. That was all anyone would find in the official file storage here or at the Pentagon. The email that accompanied it, though, explained that details remained secret because the control mechanism could be replicated on Earth without advanced technology and was therefore too risky to discuss. So far, the email was the only written record in existence. When he sent it, backups would automatically be created here and in Washington, creating the unacceptable risk that would take O'Neill away forever. He would not have it known that there was a low-tech way of controlling him, and the military would not chance it either.

Hammond hadn't wanted to do it. He still didn't want to do it. But what choice did he have?

He could say he didn't know anything, and let people continue to assume some alien technology was involved. But what would explain the refusal of both Morgan and O'Neill to describe the technology or suggest defenses against it? Military officers had no expectation of privacy on missions. Quite the opposite; with very few exceptions, they were obligated to provide full disclosure of all events. It would therefore be presumed that both of the decorated officers were still under some form of alien control. Facing an unknown technology with the potential of strictly controlling personnel would push the Pentagon to choose Morgan's route immediately – without knowing what evil weapon awaited on the other side, they would feel compelled to launch an all-out strike, to take the herbs Earth needed to survive no matter the cost to either side. There would be losses on both sides, including Earth soldiers who didn't need to die.

He could take Morgan's assurance that the control mechanism would be difficult to deploy against a volume of soldiers simultaneously, claim that he knew the details, then plead the military version of the "Fifth Amendment" as Morgan and O'Neill had. That would save the soldiers, his own people and those of the other commands that would have to contribute to build an invasion-sized force. He'd thought long and hard about this course of action, and he would take it before he'd agree to lose an unknown number of troops in an invasion. He'd come close to doing it, actually, had the email written that way before his grand-daughter called.

She'd cheerfully told him about her day, including the new ice-cream truck and driver that had come down their street. The one who smiled at her and replaced her popsicle after accidentally touching it to the shelf, saying you couldn't be too careful with that nasty incurable sickness going around and asking if she knew the common precautions against germs. Having received threats against the children in the past, he had promptly had the ice cream man investigated. Or tried to. He was not the one assigned to that route, nor was a truck of that description owned by the company. Or any of the other companies registered nearby. It could be simply a new ice cream man trying to take over someone else's territory. Still he couldn't help but wonder if a call would come in if his report wasn't clear, a mysterious voice telling him how sad it would be if the girls got sick, how that could be prevented if he shared the secret of Adel City's weapon. Hammond hated himself for it, but he put his grand-daughters before his friend. They were just children, and could die if infected by the disease. Jack was a grown man, a soldier, and he had an alternative of living on another planet somewhere if he had to.

And it looked like he had to.

There were only seven minutes left before midnight.

~oOo~ The First Test

Jack O'Neill sighed and squared his shoulders.

Potts immediately reacted with suspicion. "Are you concerned about any of the parties?"

"No. I just think this could be difficult."

"Are you sure? I can dismiss any or all of them, just say the word."

Jack's lips quirked upward in a half-smile. Potts would do it; he'd already demonstrated his protectiveness. They'd had three visitors last night, and he'd gone after two. One had been from the Pentagon, leader of a team sent by Kinsey to retrieve him. Marine Colonel Winchester had arrived at their quarters, taken one disbelieving look at Potts with a visible sidearm, brilliant orange plastic sunflower boutonniere, and mechanical hat (a work in progress), and asked if the man's theory was to look so insane that no one would come near him. Potts hadn't batted an eye, just said that he would do anything that might work. Winchester had snorted in disgust and headed past Potts toward O'Neill, safely ensconced in the back of the large room. He had good reflexes; he made it about half a step before hitting Potts' first trap, evaded that one and barely dodged the second before falling to the third. He was a total of about three feet into the room. Potts had delicately tugged him back to the doorway and calmly thanked him for testing *some* of the security. They'd had a short debate, Potts very politely informing the officer that O'Neill was leaving over Potts' dead body and Winchester not-so-politely echoing Potts' comment about 'anything that might work.' General Hammond, summoned by the door guard better able to hide his snickers with pretend coughs, had taken Winchester back to his office for more discussion.

Potts and Hammond won that round, and the Pentagon agreed that O'Neill could stay. Even better, Potts had succeeded in outlawing Winchester and Kinsey both from entrance. But like everything in Jack's life, nothing worked out to be all good. The Tok'Ra, aware of Earth's plight but so far unable to help except for healing individuals with their hand devices, had sent an emissary with a new idea. Potts had stepped out in the hall to meet her, and sprayed her with his sunflower the instant she was in range (how he would have liked to have seen the looks on all their faces!). Hammond and the guards were stunned for a moment, and all Jack could hear was Potts counting "one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand" and an eerie inhuman hiss from the furious Tok'Ra. The door slammed shut, and by the time O'Neill had worked his way past the security traps to open it, it was all over. The Tok'Ra Anise was giving Potts a golden-eyed glare even as Hammond rebuked the man. Potts explained that he needed to know how effective the spray was on Tok'Ra or Goa'uld. Barely three seconds, not enough time for him to get O'Neill to safety should she become or voice a threat. She had taken that opportunity to voice a few threats directly to Potts, but he still insisted she would not be allowed to speak to Jack directly. Unfortunately, she might have been bringing his salvation, which Potts now firmly kept from him.

Anise had offered to make him into a version of a za'tarc. He would know what was happening, and remember, but she could put in an irreversible and irresistible suggestion that would kill him if anyone did try to control him the way they had in Adel City. It might be his only way to stay here on Earth and feel safe. The Air Force might accept it if their own staff watched the process to verify no other suggestions were added. It might be his best chance, but he'd have to survive till the end to get it. There was no way Potts was going to let her – and certainly not her za'tarc machine – anywhere near him until he felt Earth was safe.

Bringing himself back to the present, he clarified for Potts. "I don't have an issue with any of these people. Let's get started. I have a feeling it's going to be a long day."

Potts gave him a considering look, then opened the door to allow their visitors inside. Jack stayed back, on the opposite side of a few of the hidden security features. He would lecture as a professor would in front of a class.

Colonel Mackintosh entered somberly. The potential leader of the negotiation team, he was a sizeable man but carried himself unobtrusively, making him seem smaller than his six feet. Jack supposed it was easier to start with negotiations if you walked slowly instead of boldly, hands dangling free as if you had nothing to do, and kept that nondescript expression, but it made him wonder if the man was strong enough for this mission.

Major Lansing, Mackintosh's second in command and military advisor, was much more what Jack was expecting. He walked purposefully, striding into the room, sweeping it in a quick recon, and making direct eye contact. While his hands were also empty, and at his side, they were still and poised, giving the impression of being ready for action. He saluted Jack, then waited for the others to enter.

Majors Landon, Priam, and Otto followed, each saluting and receiving a salute in return before taking a place alongside Lansing.

Jack wasted no time. "Mackintosh, you realize this may be your last command?"

"I'm aware of the danger, sir." Mackintosh straightened a bit, as if to demonstrate his bravery.

"I don't mean physical danger, Mackintosh. You need to adopt some behaviors for this mission, and if you can't drop it later, you're finished. Are you ready for that?" Jack was deliberately challenging the man, making sure he was up to the task.

"I don't understand."

"Adel is a very physical place. If any of these guys," Jack waved at the other four on the team, "give you the least bit of issue – the *least* bit – bad eye contact, slow response, anything – you'll need to deck 'em."

All five eyed each other, not sure whether to believe it, checking whether the others did.

"I mean it, Mackintosh. Suppose Otto here is anything less than instantaneous in responding to you, you belt him. Hard." Jack looked them each in the eye. "If your host sees a subordinate doing anything he considers disrespectful, and you don't respond, or don't respond solidly enough, he will 'help' you out by disciplining for you. And he will be rougher than a punch." He looked at each one again for effect. "I saw a man have his eye gouged out for looking at his superior the wrong way. Another had his hand pressed into a fire because he dropped a stone in it." No need to mention that the latter was him, when he'd dropped a stone whose color Keyna particularly fancied.

Landon looked doubtful.

"Got something to say, Landon?" Jack asked.

Landon looked him in the eye. "With all due respect, sir, it doesn't make sense. If you maim personnel for minor infractions, you'll run out of staff pretty quickly."

"You're right, Landon. It doesn't make sense. On *Earth*. In Adel, they have healing herbs that can fix you back up, so extreme damage is routine. They could press your hand in the fire, even hold it there and make Mackintosh parlay over your screams," actually, that wasn't likely, but only because it would be hard to hear over the noise, "to make sure you got the message, then fix it after and have you back on duty in an hour." He watched the expressions on all five faces.

"This is the culture you are dealing with. Consider whether you are up for it." He turned back to the leader. "Especially you, Mackintosh. You *need* to get in the habit of decking the crew for every little thing. Everything. Zero tolerance, zero hesitation. But after this mission, if you strike a fellow officer even once, you know your career will be over."

Mackintosh was frowning, eyes flicking between his team and Jack. He seemed to come to a decision, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. "There's a lot at stake here. I'll assume this is my final mission. If I can make a comeback after, it will be a bonus. I'm ready."

"Are you sure? Can you put your own team member on the ground for every little thing?"

"Yes," it sounded more like bravado than certainty.

"Well, we're going to find out. As of now," Jack frowned as Mackintosh's eyes bulged then flicked to Jack's hands. Jack had picked up the stone-studded leather leash without thinking about it; Mackintosh probably thought he was going to use it on them. Soon he'd probably wish that was all that was going to happen. Jack's fingers found the amber pair automatically, feeling the worn leather around them, narrower than the area around the six sapphire ones, rubbing across them as he turned his attention to the others. "We're practicing 24-7. You follow his orders. Instantly. Perfectly. And if you don't, he decks you. If you can't get used to it, you won't pull off this mission." He nodded, and Potts murmured something into the intercom. Jack took the opportunity to put the leather strap in a drawer so he wouldn't pick it up unconsciously again. As always, the tawny and sapphire sets ended up on top.

The door opened and a squirrely looking little officer entered, holding a Goa'uld pain stick. Jack had chosen him carefully, too. Small and odd looking, he'd often been the subject of bullying, even in the military. He would relish his temporary power over stronger people, at least until the thrill wore off, and that would help him act. Just to make sure, he'd been shown made-up reports of the negotiation team being needlessly aggressive on prior missions, and told that was one reason they'd been chosen for this mission, but to save the Earth they needed to learn to take it as well as dish it out. He could do his country and his planet a great service by showing bullies what it was like to be on the other side, and they would have to acknowledge he made it possible.

"This is *your* consistency officer, Mackintosh," Jack said without humor. "If any of your team makes a mistake, and you don't deck them immediately, he'll use the pain stick."

Mackintosh was clearly angered. "I can remember my duty without being hit with a pain stick!"

"He's not going to use it on *you,* Mackintosh. If you're slow to correct," he stumbled over the word, and the unwelcome memories of Adel it recalled, "he will do it for you, as your host in Adel would. A longer jolt each time." He paused as the five again shared uneasy looks with each other. "Get used to it, folks. Instant obedience or else instant punishment. And if you don't get something from Mackintosh, you get worse from our friend here."

The man took up a position behind the four junior team members. Mackintosh half-turned, scowling at the new addition.

"No need for him to have a name," Jack said calmly. It would make their enforcer scarier and also harder to build any rapport with. "Just know that all six of you are inseparable from now until departure."

"Now, Priam," Jack turned to the one woman on the team. "Never let it be said that Adel forgets the ladies."

"I can handle anything the men can, sir."

"I have no doubt, Priam. The question is whether you *want* to handle the additional duties of women in Adel. If you socialize with your hosts – and you will – they will expect you to be providing extra services to Mackintosh at dinner." He spelled it out for her. To her credit, she made the same decision as Mackintosh, to do whatever she had to for her planet.

~oOo~

"How'd it go, Colonel?" Hammond was in the visitor area near the door. Potts, as always, sat in the middle, ready for action.

Jack grimaced. "Mackintosh is the main concern at the moment. The physical discipline is counter to his training and his nature. He's slow to do it, so his team gets the pain stick a lot. He gets flustered when they scream, and makes more mistakes and, well, you get the picture."

"Do you think he's going to make it?"

Jack fiddled with Potts' discarded Pepsi bottle as he thought. Potts always left a couple of inches in his second bottle of the day, as if to prove to any psychologists that his two-bottle-a-day habit had not increased, and the sloshing of the liquid was a pleasant distraction. "Let's see if he comes back in the morning. He knows he's struggling; he dismissed Priam to remove one dynamic." That had happened during lunch; she'd given it a go but he was already overwhelmed by the grueling morning. "Let's also warn Lansing that there's a solid chance he'll take the lead."

"I'll handle that. I'm meeting each of them individually every evening to get their reports." Hammond had actually already met with the others and come to similar conclusions. Mackintosh was definitely feeling guilty about the pain his team was experiencing, and emotionally conflicted about the need to cause them pain himself to avoid it. He wanted to continue the mission, but had also strung out the interview to delay going back to the quarters he shared with the enforcer and the team. If he didn't work things out tomorrow, he'd be the next to go. People were dying every day, time was the one thing they did not have.

Lansing had suggested that perhaps he could be Mackintosh's enforcer and discipline the remaining pair for him. He was sure he could mete out minor pain to save major pain, backing up the assertion with stories of similar action from his time as a POW. Hammond had told him he would run the idea past O'Neill, but had also reminded the man that if Mackintosh failed, he would assume command.

Otto and Landon had been resolute in their determination to learn their parts well enough to avoid any further discipline, pain stick or otherwise. Their planet was at stake, they were among those chosen as the best candidates to save it, and nothing would stand in their way.

"Should we activate the backup team, just in case?" There was a second team, and a third, in waiting should the first fail. Daniel Jackson, Major Carter, and Teal'c, having the second most experience with the Adel society, were coaching them. They'd given only the prime team to O'Neill to focus their training, but perhaps it would be better to have group training instead.

"Let's see how the morning goes and decide at lunch tomorrow."

Mackintosh and his team had a long talk that night and came back strong the next day. They'd been granted a week to exchange as much information as possible and then they were off to Adel. The balance between thoroughness and speed hadn't been quite right – Mackintosh and team were making progress but had suffered several setbacks. The social rules were just that complex. O'Neill and Potts filled the time between radioed calls for advice with slightly less intense training of the backup teams in case any replacements were needed.

~oOo~ The Beginning of the End

Jack waited with anticipation alongside Potts for their escorts. There had been a gate activation two hours ago, and another ten minutes ago. Normal missions were on hold as the whole planet focused on the plague; the only teams out were Mackintosh's and two others following different leads on medical help. The gate activity had to be related to one of them.

The fact that Hammond had sent someone to get them – to *get* them, not to see them here in their safe haven – had to mean Mackintosh had succeeded. Grinning like fools, Jack and Potts had cheerfully disarmed, leaving a heap of various weaponry on the front table. The order to return to standard uniform was another clear indication that a victory celebration was pending. They'd slapped each other on the back and shaken hands and said it was nice-working-together and hope-we-never-do-this-again. They exchanged one last grin as the door opened.

A smiling MP waited in the hall, backed by five more grins. He saluted with a flourish. "We were told to consider ourselves your honor guard, sir."

Jack returned the salute and the smile and fell into step beside him. In a conspiratorial whisper, the MP told him that Hammond had been seen entering the conference room with a bottle of scotch. Jack felt the knot of stress in his gut loosening. It was really true. It must be. Only something the magnitude of saving a planet would entice Hammond to break regs and be seen with liquor on duty. He'd have to make sure Teal'c added another point to his tally of planet-savings. The negotiations were a success, the healing herbs on the way, and he could get za-tarcked – who ever thought he'd look forward to that? – and life could go back to normal again.

They reached the conference room, and the honor guard stood to attention while their leader told Jack he was to go first so Hammond could have a private moment with him. He opened the door, and Jack could see Hammond inside, back to the door, arranging something on the table. Amber liquid sparkled in the clear glass neck of a bottle just visible over the top of a chair.

Jack walked forward as the door closed behind him, stopping near it and waiting for Hammond to offer a celebratory toast. "General." He felt more relaxed than he had in days. He wasn't out of the woods yet, but the tree line was now visible. What was the saying? If you're going through Hell, go faster? Well, he had, and now he was almost out of it!

"Colonel." Hammond's voice was thick.

He turned, and Jack took an involuntary step back. He hadn't seen Hammond look this bad in ages. The General looked worn and grey, like an old newsprint copy of the vital man he'd been. The first thing that came to mind was that the Pentagon had decided the safest thing was to end the mission with Jack's death instead of exile, and made Hammond the messenger, or even the agent. Mackintosh, or somebody, had to have succeeded in saving Earth or else he'd still be contained in his little sanctuary. With the crisis over, had they decided O'Neill was now a liability?

"Colonel," Hammond began again, then hesitated.

Heart pounding, he held his body still, hoping to look calm. "Just tell me, General. Waiting is worse than knowing."

"Adel has suspended negotiations," the General said heavily. He put one hand on the back of the seat in front of him, bumping it into the table as if the weight of the news was pressing him down physically.

"You need advice on what to do?" Jack said it cautiously, almost hopefully, pretty sure that was not what this was about. He felt exposed suddenly, acutely aware that he was now without his weapons, traps, or even Potts.

"They'll resume, on one condition…"

Hammond's voice trailed off again, and Jack felt the wall bump against his back. He hadn't even realized he was edging away.

"They want you."

"General," he heard the high pitch of his voice and cleared his throat. "General, we talked about this. I can't go back to Adel. I can't. They might – "he caught himself before spilling his secret. "You promised I wouldn't have to negotiate directly!"

"They," Hammond couldn't even face him. He looked down at his own hands, now both clenching the back of the chair, "didn't ask for you as a negotiator."

"General!" The screechy sound was back in his voice, and his hands scrabbled against the bare wall as if some secret door would present itself to his desperate fingers. "Not that! Anything, *anything* else!"

Hammond plowed on, either unwilling or unable to address the fear in his friend's voice. He spoke to the section of upholstery crumpled between his white knuckles. "The demand came in two hours ago. We're stalling as long as we can. Anise just arrived and is setting up her za'tarc machine. The best I can do is hold them off until she can administer the za'tarc procedure."

The best he could do? It was a hint, it had to be. "Will you let her kill me with the machine?" He frantically latched on to the idea like a shipwrecked sailor sinking with the anchor to avoid the sharks. "An accident, of course. You'll send them my body as evidence. That's it, isn't it, George?" He used his superior's first name, trying to move the conversation onto the personal level, where it was much harder to order a suicide mission, especially one as cruel as this. He realized that Hammond had done the opposite, perhaps trying to keep things professional instead.

"I'm s…," Hammond wavered over what was surely the word "sorry." It was difficult to retain your composure while you apologized to someone for causing his approaching death. At least he managed to make eye contact. "No, Colonel."

"Why are you even doing this instead of hauling my ass off when you were ready to throw me through the gate?"

"I thought you should have time to calm down, leave messages for anyone you wanted to." Hammond waved vaguely at the table. It held pad and paper, laptop with word processor open, and one of the portable video cameras they took on missions. His choice of media. No choice of ending.

Anyone he wanted. "Where is SG-1?" They would defend him. Or at least euthanize him.

Hammond looked back at his hands on the chair. "They're off base. There won't be time to see them before, before you go."

His eyes widened. "You did it on purpose! You sent them away and called me here, out of the room, away from Potts and our stuff."

He didn't deny it. "I didn't want anyone to get hurt."

"You didn't want anyone to get hurt?" Jack roared. "What do you think is going to go on back there?" He threw a chair against the wall furiously, whirling back to face Hammond. "Why didn't you warn me?" he was close to the General now, hands on the table, leaning to within inches of his face, voice softer with pain. "I could have done it. You'd be off the hook, all you'd have to tell them is that it was an accident or punishment. Why, George?" He could see that the words hurt, but no reprieve came, and it fed his anger. "An iron-clad guarantee," he mocked, his voice a low growl, reminding Hammond of the promise that had been made. He'd offered up his life plenty of times, but this time, that place… he'd been on the verge of suicide to avoid being asked or ordered back there, and they knew it. Only his desire to help the dying people – and the President's own pledge – had kept him from it. "I could kill you!"

"Go ahead."

Simple words, softly spoken, but it shocked Jack. "What?"

"Go ahead," he repeated heavily. "God knows you deserve it. And so do I."

~oOo~

General George Hammond sat alone in his office, fingering the unopened bottle of scotch. It had been a paltry attempt to ease his friend's pain, a vain hope that he would down it and maybe feel a bit less of what was sure to come when he went back to Adel. The Pentagon knew he was O'Neill's friend and that he would have opposed this even if he weren't, but he was also the only man who could lure him out of the heavily protected room without a fight. He'd only agreed to do it because they would have had the Colonel out of there, no matter what it took, and there was no sense expending good men when the eventual outcome was certain. Even then, they hadn't trusted his word.

They had strictly forbidden him to kill the man, put him in a coma, or drug him before sending him through the gate. There had been a whole laundry list of forbidden acts, specifically defined as treason if enacted, ordered, implied, or encouraged. Hammond had endured being frisked before entering the conference room to ensure he could not disobey their orders, and the MPs waiting outside afterwards had been from NORAD upstairs, under General Welton's command, not Hammond's. Millions of lives were at stake, and the Pentagon would not risk Adel's satisfaction just to save one man, or two, pain. He'd felt compelled to offer something but all he could come up with was the bottle he'd been saving for a special occasion. O'Neill said it would only make things worse and told him exactly what he could do with his damned bottle.

It hadn't taken Anise long to prepare. O'Neill hadn't tried to escape when they came for him. He knew there would be MPs, and plenty of them, ready to ensure he did his duty. He'd frozen for a moment then paused only long enough to scrawl a note to SG-1: "Trust no one but each other." Hammond had winced when he saw it, and O'Neill sarcastically asked him to deny it was good advice. He couldn't.

He'd overseen the za'tarc procedure personally, that shred of privacy the last thing he could do for his friend. He had wanted to be the one in the room with O'Neill, at his side till the last. The Colonel asked him to switch with Morgan, chosen as the only other observer because she already knew the secret. It had been her hand, not his, on O'Neill's shoulder for moral support.

O'Neill had accepted a token from her, too, whether because he wanted it or to drive home the difference between his current opinion of Hammond and anyone else, Hammond wasn't sure. She'd brought the leather leash. With the microphones in the room, Hammond heard her quietly tell him she'd burn it after he left. He nodded his thanks, and slipped his hands along it till his right covered the amber pair and his left danced nervously over a set of dark blue ones.

He stood stiffly in the control booth with Anise as O'Neill formally thanked the Tok'Ra – he emphasized the word, a little reminder that it was they, and not his Earth brethren – for their protecting him from a repeat of what had happened in Adel. Hammond could see why it was intolerable for O'Neill, and why Morgan was so sure it could not be deployed against a large force. Keyna, the man assigned to break O'Neill into slavery, had seen him being protective of a child and had used that against him, viciously attacking the smallest child handy as punishment for the tiniest error on O'Neill's part. A man like him would go to extremes to avoid that happening again.

But that wasn't all.

Keyna made O'Neill look into the eyes of the child victim as it happened and once, their faces inches apart, the acting enforcer's hip at their cheeks as he leaned over the screaming child, O'Neill's eye had been pierced by the tip of the knife on the enforcer's belt as the man moved. It hurt horribly, of course, and he could not help but react. Keyna had used that against him, too, demanding that he hold still as tiny bits of his eyeball were plucked out with a sharp metal tool. Apparently, Keyna's men had experience with the technique, as O'Neill retained part of his vision afterward and watched with bleeding damaged eyes as a child was punished for each time he flinched. Another little one would then be held ready before him, both knowing what would happen if Jack cried out or flinched as they cut out another chunk of his eye. *When* he cried out or flinched.

O'Neill stared into space, hands clenched around the leash, as he asked Anise to give him a suggestion that would kill him if he was told to do something to avoid injury to a child, or if his eyes were about to be pierced. He paused for a moment, clearly trying to phrase things carefully, and asked most of all to die if he was again made to choose.

To choose. Hammond suddenly understood several other things. Potts, never leaving his post, had emailed the psychiatric staff for advice after witnessing O'Neill's nightmares. The sleeping Colonel would grip the rails of his cot fiercely, his breath coming in tiny tight wisps as if he were in extreme pain, then the nightmare would get, to quote Potts, "spooky." O'Neill's eyelids would open, his half-rolled-up eyes jerking back and forth in apparent REM sleep, and he would stiffen so much his back arched off the bed as a long raspy moan grated from his throat. There would be a pause in which his body would go completely limp, then a squelchy sound – Potts had thought the man had swallowed his tongue – and it would start all over. The psychiatric staff had told Potts to let O'Neill finish the dreams, that his unconscious mind was working through something. The psychiatric staff had duly passed the information on to Hammond as one more reason why O'Neill should not be sent on any mission back to Adel again. Usually, the dream went through some cycles then ended. Twice, when it went on longer than usual, it had abruptly escalated into frantic thrashing and incoherent babbling then just as suddenly ended with the Colonel curling up into a frighteningly still ball. On the mornings after those, O'Neill had been extremely harsh on himself as well as his trainees. Here in the control booth, hearing the Colonel's worst fears voiced, Hammond saw the pieces fit together and understood.

The usual dream was indeed a reliving of the actual events, of O'Neill desperately holding to something as he tried to submit to the torture of his eyes, collapsing in relief when there was a brief reprieve, and making the squelching sound as he caught his breath when they came back at him again. In the two extreme ones, he had dreamed that he broke, or maybe even that he begged Keyna to leave him alone, even if it meant he would hurt a child instead. In the morning, he hated himself for what he had done in the dream and acted accordingly. It all fit. O'Neill was afraid he'd crack and save himself over a child if he was sent back to more of that, or that someone on Earth would find out and he would be unable to withstand the coercion of the horrific scenario. How much it was on his mind showed in how often it was in his hands; O'Neill frequently fiddled with the leather strap, usually covering the brown pair of stones with one hand while the other moved across the blue and green ones. The stones were all in pairs, like eyes, and O'Neill was figuratively covering his own as he worried over the others.

Hammond wished he'd known all this earlier. He could have told O'Neill that Keyna had not realized how badly frightened he'd been by the combined attack on his eyes and the children, how close he'd been to breaking. Keyna had been *trying* to break O'Neill's spirit; if he had actually realized how close he'd been, he would not have stopped until he succeeded. And he certainly would not have loaned him to the comparatively moderate animal trainer. O'Neill had been too close to the whole situation, too afraid that Keyna knew, to see that it wasn't true. Now it was too late to help; Anise would give him the relief he needed, not Hammond.

Anise had offered to broaden the suggestion, to virtually ensure he'd die soon after being handed over to Adel. Hammond had hesitated – hesitated! he kicked himself mentally – over allowing any additions. In all honesty, he'd been unwilling to accept that this was really the end but the Colonel had taken the delay for disagreement and angrily refused any extras. It was a foolish thing to do, but who could blame him for a flash of temper? He could have had his memory of the torture erased, but he refused, saying that it would be disrespectful to the children. They would remember, and so would he, for the short time he had left. He would take comfort in knowing that it could not happen again to any other child. When it was over, O'Neill closed his eyes and let out a long exhale, seeming to deflate as he did. His worst fear relieved, he somehow found the courage to go on. It did not mean he forgave. The last thing O'Neill said to him was to coldly compliment him on his thoroughness and that he and his superiors could rest assured that he could not escape suffering to Adel's satisfaction.

Any moment now, the gate would activate for O'Neill's last trip through it, escorted by whatever member of the backup team had drawn the short straw, to what would probably be a horrible death. He had categorically refused Hammond, and appreciatively excused Morgan from the task.

Hammond decided he couldn't let it happen. He strode out of his office, hoping he wasn't too late.

The gate room had a security detail guarding the door lest the doomed man attempt escape. No one wanted to see it happen, but no matter who he was, O'Neill was one man against the millions dying from the plague. That didn't keep the sick looks, and even a few tears, off their faces as the Colonel walked slowly up the ramp. A cloak, hurriedly purchased from a local costume store to fulfill the requirement that he not be identified by random locals in Adel, swept gracefully to the ground and added to the image of ritual sacrifice.

Hammond walked past the crowd in the room, all of them – even Anise – holding a salute in respect to the Colonel's final act. Captain Miller of backup team 2 was the escort; Hammond relieved him of his weapon and waved him away, turning back in time to hear an MP apologetically tell O'Neill he hadn't known the truth when his team escorted him from his quarters. Hammond received the glare that the man barely hid, and forgave it. He'd betrayed that man, too, letting him believe he was the herald of triumph so he would unwittingly lure a hero from safety.

O'Neill just nodded, probably past the ability to speak right now.

Hammond fingered the zat he now held. It was extremely hard to surrender oneself to the enemy. All the more so when you already had a particularly violent history with that enemy. If O'Neill panicked and attempted to flee, he could be brought down without serious injury and still retain his value to his recipients. Hammond felt every eye in the room on him, expecting a last minute reprieve.

He took hold of O'Neill's arm, and a flutter ran around the room as breaths held in hope were let out in disappointment. The Colonel stared stonily ahead, outwardly looking remarkably calm and brave, but Hammond could feel him trembling.

Hammond tightened his hand a bit, intending a comforting squeeze, but that, too, came across all wrong. O'Neill jerked his arm away, as if the other man had been rushing him or calling him coward, then covered the motion by using his hands to pull the cloak's wide hood over his head. It was most likely part of a vampire costume, its ruby satin lining in sharp contrast to the ebony velvet exterior. It flowed as smoothly as a liquid, and Hammond unwillingly thought of blood pooling, and was grateful for the distraction of Miller at his own wrist, strapping on the GDO.

There were no diversions left, no other reasons they could delay a bit longer. They walked slowly up the ramp past the silently saluting crowd and emerged into a bright afternoon, the green clearing circled with an armed escort from Adel. For the first time in his life, Hammond found himself hoping for an enemy ambush. Both sides monitored the gate, and battles often broke out after an activation. Adel could hardly argue if their prize were taken by the enemy, and being a nameless POW there would be far better for his friend.

The council of Adel had prepared. There was no chance for ambush as they were hustled away at double-time pace. He knew the terrain from the reports, that there were no convenient cliff edges he could "accidentally" tumble over to kill them both. But why couldn't the enemy be as aggressive today as they had been the day this nightmare all started? Why couldn't the wild badgers be hungry enough to go after them?

Their trip was uninterrupted, and they didn't even have all that far to go. They were led to a very large room that must have once been Baron Honna's audience chamber. One side was in ruins, and on a platform atop the rubble were nine chairs in a semi-circle, obviously symbolizing the rise of the new Adel from the wreckage of the old. Across from them, on undamaged flooring, and therefore lower, Mackintosh and his team sat in an arc that formed the opposite side of the circle. To the far end of the room, what looked like the dais for a throne was now red-painted floor surrounded by three sets of three circular rails, forming a round cage of sorts. Three sets of three must represent the nine member council, but what was the enclosure for? Was it symbolic or would they use it to hold O'Neill while they executed – he cringed at even the mental use of the word – their intentions?

Mackintosh inclined his head and Hammond led O'Neill to the open space between him and the council. There was a three-color pattern comprised of nine shapes drawn on the floor and they moved toward it, stepping onto it when encouraged by Mackintosh. Hammond waited, looking straight ahead but not making eye contact with anyone. O'Neill stood beside him, still covered head to toe in the cloak.

Mackintosh rose and stepped forward, finishing with a bow and a flourish of his hands. "Cheyenne Mountain City requests the mighty Council of Adel City forgive our error. We find contention within the Council unthinkable and impossible, and in no way meant to encourage such a despicable idea. As further proof of our sincerity, our emissary has brought the token for which you asked." He flourished his hands at the pair before him.

The nine inclined their heads in unison, acknowledging him. The first to speak, however, disregarded the focal point of the meeting.

"How old are you?" he asked Hammond.

He'd barely finished when Mackintosh added, "Answer them."

Hammond had had an overview of the society to gain an understanding of just why it would be so hard to negotiate here, so he had known not to speak without leave, but he appreciated Mackintosh's protection nonetheless. He answered their questions about his age, and described how he was entitled to retire at any time he chose, and that he expected he had thirty years or more yet to live. They marveled at his age and his long career, though one dryly remarked that the younger Mackintosh had progressed over him to leadership. They asked the ages of his children, as if to confirm his own years, and he gave them, and the ages of his grandchildren, and that they lived with their mother, who had never been in the service at all.

When the questions seemed to taper off, Mackintosh spoke again. He was still standing near the pair at the center, but carefully off the design on the floor. "You can see that our words about our city are true. It is possible to survive without war, and now we wish our city and yours to grow without war as well." He inclined his head and swiveled one hand. "Will the great city of Adel resume negotiations with Cheyenne?"

"First let us dispense with any idea that the Council of Adel can be divided," one pronounced. Heads bobbed on both sides of the speaker. They were remarkably similar in appearance. All were young, of course; the life expectancy in Adel was barely forty years because of the war. None was significantly larger or smaller than the others and all were in good physical condition. Clean-shaven faces, matching ultra-short hair styles, and identical utilitarian dress left little possible variation. There had even been some attempt made to cover the few scars barely visible.

As if to confirm that they were trying hard to be a single unit, the speaker proclaimed that "We nine come from three to become one!"

"The Council is One!" the others echoed. It must be a new slogan to reinforce their fledgling unity. Nine people from three factions forming one leadership.

One stepped down from the dais and approached. He reached up to pull the cloak off, stopping when he felt the material. He slid his hand along it, and his rough skin crackled and caught on the satin. "A rich vestment for a condemned slave."

Mackintosh was quick to pick up on that one. "We believe a life is the most precious offering of all, no matter who is living it, and such a gift deserves the best wrapping. Cheyenne would be happy to offer each member of the Council of Adel such a garment as a token in opening of negotiations to trade for more such cloth or clothing."

"Yes, such a gift," the man murmured.

He let the cloak drop, and it cascaded into a shiny scarlet pool at its wearer's feet. Hammond swallowed as it again made him think of blood. The council man waved him away, and Hammond stepped back, stopping on the edge of the colored pattern at Mackintosh's signal.

"The man who began the revolution." The councilman was speaking louder now, and began to circle, examining his prey from all sides. "The would-be hero of the former mayree," he watched intently to see if O'Neill reacted to the word. He didn't, he just stared straight ahead, and the man stepped behind. "An enigma to the soldiery." He moved around to the other side, where again he could watch for expressions. "The so-called bane of the former rulers."

He stopped nearly in front again, leaving a clear view for his fellow council members. "The man, the symbol, most likely to cause division among the council." He paused to look him over again from head to toe. "Are you a hero?"

O'Neill shook his head once.

The man's hand shot out, delivering a powerful blow to the solar plexus that knocked him to the ground. Hammond jerked, instinctively wanting to act, then went still. O'Neill was on all fours, head bowed, gasping.

"Speak when you are spoken to!"

O'Neill's voice was rough, raspy with pain and the fear of what was yet to come. "Yes, sir."

The man grabbed his hair and pulled him to his feet sharply. "Get up!"

O'Neill didn't meet his eyes. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," he grated out. He was rewarded with the release of his hair.

"So, are you a hero? Did you expect the former mayree on the council to rush to your defense?" Not one of them had moved a muscle.

"No, sir."

Three men came down from their elevated seats and filed toward him.

The first faced him closely. "It matters not how Adel was reborn, only that it was. I was once mayree, but that was a former life. That, and you, mean nothing to me. I would not raise my finger to help you even if he had chosen to club your head right off your shoulders."

The next man stepped up. "Adel is strong in its unity, and will remain so. You are not sacred to us, or even important." He proceeded to offer a list of tortures, efficiently proceeding from feet to head, that he could watch without qualm.

The third one stepped up. "I knew him in a former life," he said softly, and O'Neill shuddered visibly in recognition of that voice. "We had the same trainer."

Hammond felt a stir of hope. If this one threatened O'Neill with injuring children, it would set off the za'tarc suggestion. It was a foolish thought; no man would offer up his own children, and he could hardly expect the former ruling or military factions to do so either.

"Yet that does not make you dear to me," Rilla continued. "Even knowing how you reacted when Keyna ordered you to unwanted sex, I could watch while you were prostituted to the whole army, or even the entire city."

The trio moved to one side, and the first man spoke again. "You have heard the words of the council, and know that you are no hero to them. Are you then a villain?"

"If you say so, sir." All four of the nearby council members pounced on that, four fists flashing out in unison.

The first man again hauled O'Neill to his feet by the hair. "Are you a villain?" he repeated.

"No, sir." The Colonel wheezed, tense, expecting to get hit again no matter what he said.

Hammond stood, his own fists clenched as he struggled to control himself. Millions of lives, he reminded himself, millions of lives for this one dear one.

Three more council members descended to the floor level, and approached. Honna went first. "In my former life, I was the ruler of Old Adel. That matters not; the New Adel rises from the ashes of the old, stronger and better. I have no feeling for you, no hate for what you took from me. You could be given riches and presented to the people on the high pavilion, and I would accord you the same respect my brethren did."

The second and third were former leaders as well, and also vowed that they harbored no hate or anything else for the man before them.

The first man – it was getting hard to keep track when they seemed to make a point of being "the council" and not introducing individuals – again took the lead. "You are neither hero nor villain here. You are nothing," he said severely, as though O'Neill had argued the point. "So what is to be done with you?"

The final two men came down to join the others. These, and the first one, must be the military contingent of the nine. The ones who did not know what to do with O'Neill. Both were young, and sported battle scars as well as an imposing military bearing.

The shorter, broader of the two spoke first. "We are one," he began, to the requisite nods and smiles from his eight brothers. "Many suggestions have been expressed, and they are not exclusive. Let it be done to him as the council has said. Dress him in jewels and present him to the public, give him riches and women, and let him enjoy them in their sight. Prostitute him to the city, and when every man has finished, do to his body each thing that was said, and end by knocking his head off his shoulders. Do it all in public that the world may know New Adel stands on its own, and needs not heroes nor villains."

Murmurs went around the group, and some heads began to nod.

The final man spoke. "We are one," he also began, receiving the same nods and smiles. "We cannot and will not be divided." More nods, and some murmurs of agreement. "We must do our best to protect the citizenry, and though the suggested display is altogether sensible," he made a gesture with both hands to emphasize that, followed by a one-palm-up-one-down pose that indicated a suggestion being gently offered, "it may confuse some of our charges. We are agreed that he means nothing to us," he twisted a hand at each and every council member in turn, "as man or symbol. Let us then remove his tongue that he cannot say who he is, his hands that he may not write it, and burn his scalp that none of his odd-colored hair can grow and reveal his identity, then send him out to live in New Adel to see and know our strength forever."

Hammond was shaking. He didn't know how O'Neill even kept on his feet at such pronouncements. He couldn't let this happen, either choice. But how could he not, when the lives of millions depended on Adel's herbs?

The first man was wrapping up now, clearly heading toward the big finish with flowery words and more praise for the unity of the council. He turned to Mackintosh, whose hands were rigidly held flat against his thighs as he, too, struggled for self-control. Lansing was at his side, his expressionless face much like O'Neill's in a bad situation. Behind him, the remaining pair still sat in their chairs, each with a white-knuckled grip on the arms.

"You do not look pleased. You doubt the wisdom of the council!"

"N-no," Mackintosh choked out. "I find it difficult to hear such things discussed." He took a breath to focus and steady himself.

Lansing made the gesture to request to speak, and Mackintosh enthusiastically gave the permission symbol in return.

Lansing stepped forward, humbly ducking his head lower than his commander's. "The noble Mackintosh is a powerful warrior, rarely have his opponents survived to require talk of these things. It is therefore no wonder that he finds it difficult." Lansing was careful to use the other man's exact phrase lest he appear to put words or intent into a superior's mouth.

The councilman smirked. "Yet you have no such problem?"

Lansing made a gesture with his hands. "I freely admit that I have had more experience with live opponents after battle," the careful phrasing did not reveal that he had at times been the prisoner rather than the victor, "than the mighty Mackintosh and therefore can speak more easily on the subject." That was also true – Mackintosh was the better negotiator, but Lansing had more experience with the cold realities of the battle field, and it was serving him well now. "That I stand here before you is the testament that my enemies have all been vanquished, even if not as quickly as my esteemed leader's."

The councilman inclined his head in agreement. He could hardly argue – in Adel there was no imaginable outcome for a loser in battle other than dead man or slave, so all of these men must have been victorious in their battles. If he had taken time to consider, he might have realized that the supposedly isolated city of Cheyenne would have no military opponent, but that, too, was unimaginable in a place where war was the only way of life.

"With your generous permission, I respectfully point out that Cheyenne Mountain City has proven that it will not use this man against you by giving him over to you, and modestly suggest that this action speaks louder than words."

It mollified the councilman somewhat, but he still turned to Mackintosh, as the leader, for confirmation.

"Do with him what you wish." Mackintosh weakly flourished his hands again.

The man's eyes narrowed, he was not convinced. "So you have no judgment on the council or their choices, even if we choose the longer of the two options?"

"No, of course not. The council is one, the council is wise." He bowed loosely, still shaken, and shaking.

The nine shared a look, and one corner of the speaker's mouth twitched as if in humor. "Then we shall give you a chance to demonstrate your sincerity before we resume negotiations. *You* will carry out the will of the council."

Mackintosh's eyes widened in horror, and he gasped before recovering himself. "If it please the council, I, I, I have no experience in such matters."

"You are known to have experience in wealth and sex," they knew he had kids, and he had presented himself as a man of power, "and surely as a military officer you have experience in death."

Mackintosh nodded numbly.

"So it remains only that you be educated in pain."

He looked like he might throw up. "If, if there is no other way, then I will learn. You may be more satisfied if another …" he trailed off hopefully.

One of the council, from the former ruling group, approached to speak. "Do not think we will be unkind," he patted Mackintosh's arm encouragingly, and the man looked at him like a drowning man being offered a lifesaver, until it became clear he was being offered an anchor instead, "or demand perfection if this is indeed your first attempt. Should you be inept or incomplete with any step, that part of the damage can be restored. You shall have as many chances as you need to complete each task well." The council man beamed, pleased with his own generosity.

Mackintosh stammered his thanks. O'Neill was visibly shaking now, and had closed his eyes. A sentence that could not get any worse, just had.

"General…" Mackintosh's voice was barely a whisper, appealing to his commander for help.

Hammond had very little to offer. "The best thing you can do for O'Neill right now is to be aggressive and get it over with as fast as you can," he said in a low voice, trying to encourage him.

The council was cheerfully making plans, and preparing to send off servants to gather what was needed. In their midst, O'Neill, ignored, was breathing deeper, anger over his unfair fate blending with the terror. One of the council asked what sort of women O'Neill favored.

"Your wives," he retorted.

The response was instantaneous, and Hammond found it easier to stand still this time, silently rooting for the Colonel to succeed in making the indignant councilmen kill him quickly. He managed to get his nose in front of at least three solid blows, but none drove the cartilage fatally up into his brain. A gouge from his left eye to his temple was the result of nearly getting an opponent's thumb to go through the socket and up into his skull.

The council's guards quickly broke it up, and held O'Neill, arms behind his back, open to any further retaliation their leaders might offer. For their part, the council moved off to one corner of the room to whisper together. After a few moments, they returned to their chairs. Mackintosh, Hammond, and the others waited to see what would happen.

One of the councilmen waved, and a servant approached with a bowl of the healing ointment. O'Neill squirmed against the men holding him, and tried to reject healing. "Leave it," he told them. The blood pouring from his nose burbled grotesquely as he spoke. "So I stand out from all the other men your wives have been with."

He didn't get a rise from them this time. The servant came up close, and O'Neill stiffened. Hammond remembered what he had said about the salve burning like fire, and mentally cringed while he held his breath against the screams that would surely follow. They'd been spared that on Earth; the recipients there were so far gone they were beyond reacting to much of anything. The servant scooped a generous dollop of goo onto two fingers and shoved it up O'Neill's nose, then proceeded to gather more and slap it on the eye wound.

Hammond was confused as his friend's stance changed from steeling himself against pain with shoulders raised and eyes half closed to stiff with anger, shoulders down and eyes wide. The man glanced up at the council, at the one who said he had known him, and that one – Rilla, he thought the name was – smirked. O'Neill's eyes narrowed again. Hammond knew him well, knew he was angry. He hoped it would help him through the rest of the sentence.

"The council is one," the first man was speaking again, from his seat this time. "While we have no feelings toward you as hero or villain in the rebirth of Adel, we all find your current behavior repugnant and disrespectful. You have forfeited the first half of the sentence. There will be no riches, no wine, women, or pleasure."

"Going back on your word already, eh?" O'Neill shot back. He had nothing left to lose, and was maybe trying to get them angry again.

"We are lenient to the condemned, and give you this one and only warning: insolence will be punished, and since there are no pleasures left to take from you, each unpleasantness you cause will be repaid in pain added to your existing sentence." They looked at each other, pleased with this seeming largesse, and amused at finding a creative way to silence their victim.

It worked. O'Neill looked like he might say something else, but thought better of it and waited silently. They were all still staring quietly at each other when a messenger arrived with news. It would take some time to assemble the men from the city and schedule rotations for the soldiery for the fourth part of the sentence, but servants were in the hall with the requested supplies for the fifth and sixth parts. Cheyenne was known to be eager for trade negotiations to resume; the council of Adel quickly made the decision to switch the order of events to keep things moving. The fifth part would commence immediately, healing could be done after to ensure their victim was alert when the townsmen were ready for the fourth.

Honna smiled wickedly. "Our guests are unfamiliar with these things. We invite the esteemed Mackintosh to the front, and each servant will describe how his item is used so that he may learn. The condemned will of course wish to see as well."

O'Neill's guards swiveled him to face the open area where he would soon be tortured.

"Adel formally steps back to allow Cheyenne to begin," he ducked his head and waved his left hand. The guards released O'Neill and returned to their posts along the wall. "Your own men can do the honors of holding the condemned for your convenience."

Lansing offered O'Neill a sympathetic look before assuming a resolutely blank expression. Landon and Otto seemed frozen, eyes wide like deer in the headlights. Mackintosh did what he could to cover for that. "They, uh, don't need to hold him until we actually, er, begin." He looked around, as if for escape. The only thing he could do to even remotely stall was to ask for all the items to be brought in and described before any were used, instead of having each be its own surprise when the last finished.

The parade of horrors began. A casual comment after a few items made Mackintosh realize he would not have the directions repeated when it came time to use each one. Mortified at the thought that forgetting how to do something would mean doing it more than once, he asked them to slow down so notes could be taken.

Honna suggested it might be fitting to have O'Neill take the notes, as he had the largest stake in the proceedings. Some of the others chuckled, a couple thought it was logical.

The half-panicked Mackintosh chose Lansing to do it, and the big man came woodenly over to him. He and O'Neill exchanged a look as he went, the unspoken understanding between POWs that it was unavoidable, and therefore forgiven, and each would do the best he could under the rotten circumstances. Lansing knelt on one knee so he could use the other as a writing desk, and Mackintosh tried to look casual as he put his hand on Lansing's shoulder for support.

It took a long time to get through everything. By the end, Mackintosh looked sick and visibly leaned on the ramrod stiff shoulders of Lansing. Otto and Landon were pale, as Hammond supposed he himself was, all three of them still frozen in their original places. He, at least, had been analyzing and re-analyzing the whole situation for any way out, but he could think of little that had much chance of getting O'Neill home alive, and nothing at all that included both avoiding this atrocity and saving lives on Earth. O'Neill had tuned out long ago, staring out the window into the distance.

Mackintosh straightened, or tried to; he was so shaken that all he achieved was to wobble back and forth like a drunk. O'Neill's head snapped toward the motion; he hadn't been as oblivious as he looked. Mackintosh weaved his way to the first station and weakly said, "Over here." He lifted the sharp spiky took from the bucket of hot coals and tried to brandish it.

Landon and Otto whimpered audibly, but stepped forward anyway thanks to their recent intense obedience training. Hammond moved.

And so did O'Neill. He took a reluctant step toward Mackintosh, whether to spare his countrymen from forcing him or to avoid the indignity of being dragged over, no one else knew.

Mackintosh himself squeaked at the sight, as if O'Neill were already a ghost, and almost dropped the tool. He instinctively grabbed for the far end with his other hand, burning himself, and dropped it with a yelp. He looked anxiously up at the council, and as he bent to pick it up, one of them made an unfamiliar gesture with one hand. Everyone froze, waiting to see what would happen.

One of the council's men stepped forward, scooping up the bowl of healing ointment as he approached. With a sigh, Mackintosh put the tool back in the coals and offered his burnt hand. He kept his head down as it was treated, but there was still little he could do to delay. He thanked the man, and the council, for the healing then resolutely picked up the tool again.

Hammond, Lansing, Otto, and Landon resumed their slow movement toward Mackintosh and the first torture. Before they reached him, O'Neill started along. One of the military members of the council raised his eyebrows in surprise, expression turning to respect at the bravery before him. Another, Hammond thought he was from the former ruling class, seemed to react to that, offsetting the feeling with a joke that Cheyenne's training methods must be the more severe after all.

It was O'Neill's turn to react. He straightened and stepped forward more surely, the very image, in Hammond's mind, of noble sacrifice. It wasn't training, it was dedication to duty, to the higher cause. "The needs of the many," as Spock said in the Star Trek movie, outweighing the needs of the few. Or the one.

O'Neill reached Mackintosh, and lowered himself into position. Adel had thoughtfully included a bench that would allow the victim to recline and see his raised feet as they were tortured. Hammond and Lansing took positions at his shoulders, to be nearer for moral support even as they held his arms and torso down. Otto and Landon shakily moved to his legs, bending to sit. They took one look at their commander and the tool he held and turned around, kneeling on the floor facing away from him, each putting an arm around one of the victim's legs. They looked at each other, then quickly away from the horror reflected there. It left them face to face with O'Neill.

Whatever they saw there pushed them over the edge. Otto crumbled first, pulling away, his face working as the soldier tried not to cry. Landon couldn't stick to his position alone, and slid back, his hand barely touching the knee in front of him in a faint attempt to do his duty.

Lansing, with a quick glance at the council to check if they were offending – this was a grey area, their leader had so far only said to come to him, which they all had – let go and moved forward to Otto, taking his shoulders and pushing him gently toward O'Neill's head. Otto gratefully accepted the switch, taking hold of O'Neill's shoulder but from behind so he would not see the man's face. Hammond did the same for Landon. He and Lansing were now the ones facing O'Neill straight on. Hammond steeled himself to see what the others had seen. Hate? Fear? A plea for help? That frighteningly blank expression he put on under extreme stress? It was the last thing he imagined.

Forgiveness.

O'Neill was looking at Lansing with forgiveness, mouthing the words "it's ok." It almost broke Hammond's heart, and he wasn't even the one on the receiving end. Lansing's stiff resolve finally wavered, but he held up, giving O'Neill a nod of thanks and a squeeze on the leg.

Hammond waited to see if he, too, would be forgiven in what was probably the Colonel's last moment of coherent thought. The man never glanced his way.

Behind them, Mackintosh moved, unable to delay any longer. Lansing took a stronger hold, looked O'Neill in the eye, and whispered "We're with you." It was all he could offer. There would be no rescue, no mercy killing, not even vengeance. Just the promise that he would not be alone.

Mackintosh thrust the red-hot barbed tool into the sole of O'Neill's foot, and he arched in pain, instinctively trying to get away. Mackintosh twisted and pulled back, as he'd been instructed, and the barbs cut new slices through the skin as they came out. A tendril of smoke curled upward. Mackintosh, whether to speed things along or to delay the next assault, turned to replace the tool in the coals and lift its mate.

Lansing was patting O'Neill's knee, repeating that they were there for him. As Mackintosh approached with the fresh tool, the Colonel abruptly moved his head, focusing on Hammond instead. The desperate needful look turned steely cold and Hammond thought – hoped, really – that he understood. Solace could make a person give in to emotion and let their pain and fear take control while anger could bolster strength and resolve. He hoped O'Neill was just choosing the man who knew him best as the focus for that anger, like turning to a friend when in need, but he knew very well that the Colonel was justified to really hate him. Hammond braced himself to bear the brunt of the famous tirades he'd only read about in mission reports from teammates who'd seen O'Neill tortured.

"Satisfied, George?" he asked softly.

*No!* Hammond wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs. No, don't think that. No, don't say it. No, don't make me do this. No, No, NO! But he didn't dare say a thing for fear of offending the Adel council. And even if he dared, 'no' would come all wrong, as if he wasn't satisfied and wanted more.

Mackintosh thrust, and O'Neill groaned through clenched teeth, his back arching as he instinctively struggled. The twist came, barbs catching on the delicate bones and making an audible crunching sound as the tool was yanked out.

There was a bit of white bone sticking out of the flesh still cooking on the end of the hot tool when it was removed. The sight of that, coupled with the sound of crunching bone and the smell of burning flesh, was too much for Otto. He threw up all over himself, Landon, and O'Neill.

Landon had the sense to hold his post, reaching out with just one hand to steady his companion, though his own bulging eyes and tight lips belied that the smell of the vomit might make him lose his lunch as well. Mackintosh was moving quickly to switch tools and strike again, hoping to keep the focus on the original plan. It hit between the two previous holes, sliding into the larger one at the ball of the foot and poking partway through the top of the foot. Otto heaved again at the sight, but all that was left in his belly was thin hot liquid.

"Hold!" one of the council said sharply.

Mackintosh jerked back as if stung, wrenching the tool along with him and eliciting another cry from O'Neill. "Come with me," he said, obviously not wanting to go alone as he walked over to stand before the council. Hammond and Lansing moved to stand just behind him in support. Landon half-hid behind them as Otto shakily made his way to the front and knelt before his commander, waiting to hear if he would be punished. At that level, his head was near the tip of the tool dangling unnoticed in Mackintosh's hand. He made a gulping sound and put his head on the floor in the gesture of total submission to distance himself from the smoking flesh.

"Otto meant no offense," Mackintosh told them hurriedly. "You granted that I am inexperienced in this, and as a junior officer he is all the less so." He swallowed. "If you wish, I will punish him for the weakness of his constitution; just know that it was a physical thing, not an intentional affront or any kind of opinion."

"He affronts our noses, not our honor," one said with a mix of humor and distaste. "Have him clean up his mess and you can begin afresh."

Another snickered at the pun about beginning afresh and in fresh air. Behind him, two more were leaning their heads together and whispering. Others looked at them, then in the direction they watched, and were drawn into the quiet discussion. Mackintosh's eyes widened and he tentatively looked behind him to see what had drawn their attention, looking for all the world like a man in a horror movie when he's about to face his nightmare.

O'Neill was there, on his feet, or foot, to be more exact. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and rolled swiftly across the injured foot to put the good one down again as quickly as possible.

"What are you doing?" Mackintosh could hardly believe his eyes. Hadn't, in fact, first re-checking the bench as if the real man would still be there and this apparition would turn out to be a monster after all.

"You said come," he gasped, panting with the pain.

"I, uh, I never meant –" Mackintosh began, at a loss for words.

Hammond was just as stunned for a moment before remembering that in this culture, they may well have punished even a condemned man in the midst of his death sentence for failing to obey. Walking on the foot instead of hopping was another form of obedience; O'Neill's report had described slaves injured in this way and then sent back to work unhealed. Failing to use the limb, or spilling things because of an uneven gait, incurred further discipline.

Otto, head still on the floor, spoke up. Mackintosh hastily made the signal of permission as though the man had asked first, hoping to spare him one punishment. "He is a good and willing servant, my master. Correct me that I may strive to perform so well in the future."

Mackintosh understood immediately that Otto was trying to deflect attention from O'Neill, and gave him an appreciative, if sad, look, knowing Otto would get his request. He turned to the council, beginning the flowery formalities of asking them which order they would like to see things.

Several council members held up hands, and he stopped speaking and waited anxiously for what they would say. "You have proven your sincerity, as have your men. Even," and this was said grudgingly, "the condemned has shown obedience in extremity." The speaker made the gesture of magnanimity, echoed by several others. "Adel accepts Cheyenne's apology and sincerity. We need not take time for all this. You may dispose of him quickly if you wish."

It was the opportunity Hammond had been waiting for. "Allow me," he said instantly, zatting O'Neill.

Mackintosh brought both fists down together on Hammond's shoulder. While the tool did not strike, the added weight was enough to drive him to the ground. "Insolent!" Mackintosh shouted, trying to keep the joy out of his voice. "You should have waited for my order! Get out of here! Go home, and take this mess with you!"

Hammond scrambled to his feet and grabbed O'Neill by the collar and ran as best he could out the door. He vaguely heard Mackintosh start into a rambling apology that would give him time to escape before the council could politely ask to examine the body or the weapon. At his speed, he lost control on the stairs, tumbling to the bottom in a heap. A guard near the door looked their way and Hammond was suddenly aware that O'Neill's hair was not covered. Clumsily leaping up, he hauled the body out of sight down the other hallway then pulled his white button-down shirt off over his head and shoved it over his friend's, pushing his head partway into one sleeve so that it would not come out. It quickly colored red as it absorbed the blood that had gushed from his injured nose, with a swirl of yellowish color from the healing ointment. Down to his t-shirt, the General grabbed on and resumed running, dragging O'Neill down the next stairs, out the door, and into the woods.

The stitch in his side became a stabbing pain, and still he ran on, his zat-hand clutching his heart. He was in shape to pass a physical for his desk job; he was not prepared to run this distance with dress shoes slipping on rugged terrain and dragging a heavy weight. He continued on sheer determination, intent on making this one precious chance succeed. If he just couldn't do it, he would zat O'Neill safely into nonexistence before risking him going back there.

He didn't stop until the gate came into view through the trees, checking to find the sentry that must be nearby, only then realizing O'Neill was awake and still bumping along on the ground behind him. His own gasping for breath had covered the Colonel's gasps of pain as his badly injured foot was dragged through rocks and twigs. He went down on all fours, which conveniently pinned O'Neill's head down.

"You're dead, so act like it!" he hissed. "We're almost home," he felt O'Neill slump in obedience – and relief, no doubt. It was too soon for the Colonel to catch his breath, though, and there was more ground to cover. One cry from that foot hitting a rock would give it all away. Hammond pulled off his shoe, grateful for this moment for his dress shoes that made it faster, tore off his sock and stuffed it in O'Neill's mouth to silence him. He shoved his bare foot back in his shoe and half-rose, one hand on his side to make it obvious to any watcher that he was a good guy catching his breath, not an enemy trying to hide. Any man worth his salt would have heard their approach long ago and taken a good tactical position, and hopefully also realized that an enemy would not come thundering through the brush as they had. Still, only a fool would bet his life unnecessarily on an assumption like that. He spotted the man, alongside a tree, barely visible as he peered between branches. He'd try to get past him with words, and zat him till he disintegrated if he couldn't.

Hammond lurched to his feet with a wheeze, tugging the limp body behind him, and staggered on, grumbling to himself about commanding officers and watching the watcher out of the corner of his eye. As hoped, the man's expression changed to a laugh.

Hammond pretended surprise when he saw the soldier emerge from the tree line, and complimented him on his stealth. When asked, he ducked his head and looked sheepish, trying to ignore the way the ground seemed to spin beneath his feet. "CO says he wants this guy dead, so I do it instantly like I thought I should. Then he tells me I should have waited for his order!" He hoped he sounded like an ordinary mid-level soldier, to be as similar as possible to this man, who could help or hinder him.

The sentry grimaced sympathetically. Pain was freely used here for discipline, and he could easily imagine what could have gone along with the verbal reprimand. His eyes drifted toward the zat Hammond still pressed against his torso, as if wondering if the strange curvy object was causing the obvious hurt in his chest.

"I know!" Hammond agreed with the unspoken sentiment. "He's really pissed, too." He tried to look appropriately panicky, and spared a glance behind him, truly worried they may have sent someone to call him back. "Nailed me once already before he yelled at me to take him," he shook O'Neill's collar for emphasis, "and get out. I'm trying to do it quick, so at least I can say I did *something* right." Hammond tugged his burden toward the DHD, groaning a bit with the effort.

The load lightened abruptly as the sentry helped him jog across the open ground over to the DHD, and Hammond smiled in gratitude. He leaned on the device as he dialed, still trying to catch his breath and dull the roaring sound in his ears. Almost there, he told himself. Another miracle almost delivered.

The gate activated, and he heaved his burden into motion, unbalancing himself so that he staggered the first couple of steps. With a sheepish grin, he gave one last wave of thanks to the sentry and struggled on toward the gate. The ramp seemed much steeper than on other planets; he felt like he was climbing a mountain. Finally, after what felt like an eon, he felt the cold blue liquid of the Stargate's event horizon on his sweaty cheek and knew he'd made it.

~oOo~

Within minutes of the official diagnosis of General Hammond's condition, a replacement was en route. There was no more critical operation on the planet, and nothing would be left to chance.

Within hours, the new officer took command. His introductory message was a sad one. General Hammond was on medical leave until further notice, and would rejoin them when he was able. Colonel Jonathon "Jack" O'Neill had succumbed to his injuries, bleeding to death even as the medical team fought to save his life. Flags would be flown at half-staff in his memory. Anyone who wished was welcome to join SG-1 in the wearing of black armbands. Everyone was urged to continue on in the names of the valiant officers.


	3. Chapter 3

~oOo~ Options

General West pushed a button, and the door promptly opened.

"Sir?" the MP politely inquired.

"Bury this man in the Honors Cemetery." It was a small, historical graveyard, rarely used now, but technically still an official military burial place.

The MP blinked then glanced quickly around, leaning over to check for corpses behind the furniture. There were none. "Colonel, if you will," he prompted, waving the only other body in the room toward the open door.

"I will not!" the angry officer retorted.

The MP considered for a moment, then turned back to West. "Permission to shoot him first, sir?" His hand was already on his sidearm.

"Denied." West didn't even look up from paperwork he'd busied himself with after giving the original order. "Colonel O'Neill is officially dead, as he has been reminding me. That would be desecrating his body."

"Yes, sir." The officer pursed his lips momentarily, then used his radio to quietly summon a team of four to assist him. Objecting to the order would just land him in trouble; West had repeatedly proven his hard-headedness in his few days on the Cheyenne base.

"Stand down, Major," the Colonel snapped.

"Happy to, sir," he responded, calmly moving to block the doorway as he waited for his reinforcements. "As soon as you outrank the General."

West smirked without raising his head.

Colonel O'Neill didn't bother to hide his annoyance. Anger, really. Why should he do anything for the Air Force now? They had known he was frightened enough of Adel to commit suicide if anyone on Earth even *contacted* that city, and had guaranteed his safety if he would stay alive and help them. He had naively trusted them. They had used his knowledge, decided the team was ready before they really were, then when the negotiations got into trouble, they sold him out, handing him over to Adel with the clear expectation of a horrific death. After his surprise return, they cooped him up in an empty room with no way to follow through on his prior suicide threat and told everyone else he had died of his injuries so anyone interacting with Adel would react accordingly. They said they'd given him his own funeral, independent of the daily group funerals for plague victims, as if that would mollify him somehow. Closed casket, of course. Those who had seen his return with his head covered in Hammond's bloody shirt assumed a head injury, and to cover any doubts gossip circulated about a sudden acute brain bleed causing him to be disfigured by emergency pressure-reducing cuts into his head. When they needed him again – Mackintosh had succeeded in resuming negotiations but now had to trade for less-desirable goods for weeks to prove himself before Adel would sell the desperately needed herbs – they expected to just order him back into the field as if nothing had happened. To top it all off, none other than General West, the man who had sent him on his first suicide mission through the Stargate, had been brought back from the Pentagon to monitor and assist. Hammond had collapsed from over-exertion, and was in no position to object.

The backup MP's arrived, and West looked up. "Decision time, Colonel. You wanted to be dead, and officially you are. Follow through or follow orders." The hard-headed Pentagon officer waited for his answer.

Jack O'Neill looked from the MPs to the General. He didn't truly think they'd go through with burying him alive, and it was too tempting to go outside and climb in a hole to call his bluff. He knew he was acting on the pent-up emotions of the past weeks, and all the close calls he'd had, but at this moment he was just too angry to think things through. He'd had more than enough of being thrown to the wolves, thank you very much.

He pulled himself up with his crutches, swinging the cast on his right foot behind in a wide swoop intended to call attention to it. To remind West of what had been done to him already, and that he'd rejected their offer to heal it with the herbs if he took the mission. One of the MP's took hold of his arm.

He pulled it back. "A little respect for the dead, Captain."

The confused captain looked to his senior officer for explanation. "Sir?"

The Colonel looked back at West. "Goodbye, General, and good luck." He left the room, led by the unhappy Major and trailed by his perplexed security staff.

They stopped at their duty station to pick up winter coats, hesitating only slightly before offering one to the Colonel. He accepted and they trooped outside and over to the cemetery. It was quaint, actually, nicely kept up out of respect for its occupants. The graves were all snow-covered, but the markers had been cleared, and the winding path that twisted between them had been recently swept. A white picket fence separated the graveyard from the surrounding evergreen trees and the mountain beyond, and a gentle breeze spun random snowflakes through the air, completing the picturesque effect.

Not a bad place to spend eternity, really.

The MPs stopped at the gate, looking around. Jack wondered if they had expected to find a grave already dug. In reality, West had said it in his own fit of anger, never expecting his bluff to be called.

The major looked at him. "Sir?"

Jack shrugged, trying not to laugh. "Don't look at me, Major. *I* told you to stand down, you decided to follow the order."

The major looked at him, then back to the base as if considering how West might react if he returned for confirmation. Apparently, he decided to keep moving, at least for the moment, and let the higher officers work through whatever idiocy this was. He sighed. "Go get some shovels, Lieutenant."

The man turned to go.

Jack wasn't sure if he was impressed or dismayed at how none of the four questioned the odd goings-on. "Bring back a chair and some hot coffee," he added.

The lieutenant hesitated, looking to his own commander for approval.

"You haven't buried this Colonel yet, *Major,*" Jack pointed out.

The lieutenant's eyes bugged out, and his three partners all gaped. It was finally enough to get them to speak up. "Um, sir," he asked hesitantly, "we're not really out here to execute the Colonel, are we?"

The major sighed, probably wishing this was not his duty night. "No, our orders are just to bury him."

Jack didn't bother to hide his scowl.

"With all due respect, sir," one of the other junior officers began.

The major took a breath, probably trying to figure out the best way to phrase things in front of the Colonel, who in all likelihood would not actually be buried and could therefore repay them later for anything he disliked. "The General said this man is dead already, and we are not to desecrate his body, just bury it. We'll see if anything changes while we dig the grave. Coffee for everyone, lieutenant, and a chair for the Colonel."

The junior officer headed off on his errand.

Jack didn't try to talk to the others while they waited. He just stood, glad to be outside somewhere other than Adel. He breathed the fresh mountain air, and enjoyed the sight of the trees and blue late-afternoon sky, regretting that it was winter time and there were no birds or animals to be seen. It would be a perfect day for a hike up the mountain, brisk but not overly cold, with bright sunshine making the new powdery snow sparkle like diamonds. He imagined the walk, kicking shallow drifts with his boots, the scent of the pines, the way new snow hushed sounds and added a kind of serenity to the world. Some of the tension began to ebb in the peaceful surroundings.

The lieutenant returned, breaking the spell of the nature all around, and reminding them of their grim errand. The Major started to ask, then thought better of it, and looked around for himself. He chose a spot off to one side near the picket fence where it would be less obvious if they just dug a hole and filled it back up again. Two of the four were set to digging, to be spelled by the other pair at regular intervals.

Jack poured some hot coffee from a thermos and sat on the camp chair to watch. It was mid-winter, and the ground had long since frozen solid. After ten minutes, and practically no progress other than a scrape mark on the icy soil, the Major ordered one fresh man to take a turn. In ten more minutes, the other starting digger would get a break, and every ten minutes after, a new person would rotate in.

Jack leaned back and crossed his legs, hiding his smirk in his coffee.

After half an hour, and a minor dent in the dirt, they heard an engine approaching. A jeep pulled up, and a big man slowly emerged. He was bundled to near invisibility, with hat, coat, balaclava, scarf, gloves, boots, and even sunglasses.

The diggers paused to watch, and Jack frowned as he tried to recognize the unfamiliar lumbering gait. It was oddly off-balance, and he wondered suddenly if SG-1 had discovered he was alive, and one of them was carrying some gear under there as they mounted a rescue. The Major stepped forward to speak to the unknown soldier.

After a moment, the Major retrieved another camp chair from the jeep and set it next to the first one. He waved his men back to work, and resumed his own position as prisoner guard, this time leaning against the jeep, either to prevent Jack's escaping in it or to enjoy the engine's warmth.

Jack sighed as the swaddled figure made its way slowly over and levered itself into the canvas chair. For a long moment, the new person just watched the diggers etching the grave. One gloved hand slid inside the heavy coat and emerged with a serrated dagger.

Jack tensed automatically as it came near him, but it was moving so slowly he could easily disarm its holder. The weapon dropped into his lap gently. Jack looked sideways at the giver. "Aren't you afraid I'll use it on you?" he asked sarcastically.

"Go ahead." The voice was muffled, but familiar.

"General Hammond?"

The figure took off the glasses and pushed up the balaclava for a moment to show his face. It was pale and worn, but definitely Hammond. Jack had been told Hammond had collapsed after the exertion of getting them both home, but he was still surprised at how ill he looked. It must have shown in his expression.

"Mild heart attack," Hammond told him, sliding the facial scarf back down with a shiver as a chill breeze brushed by. "And a torn ACL." That explained the unbalanced gait.

"Shouldn't you be off your feet?"

"Technically, I should have been forced to retire. But with the pandemic, we can't afford to lose even a semi-able body. So officially, it's just over-exertion. But I didn't come to talk about me."

"Why did you come?" Jack asked warily.

"To give you at least a few more choices. You've done your share, and more." Hammond looked away, watching the diggers. "If this is really what you want, there's the means." He indicated the blade with a slight twitch of his hand. "Use it on yourself, or if you'd prefer a bullet, use the blade on me and the MPs will shoot you down." He took a breath. "If you want me to do it for you, open your coat a bit so I don't have to go through it."

"Wouldn't that be desecrating my body?" Jack asked sarcastically.

Hammond laughed, a short and humorless burst of air. "After what I did to you, sending you back there, you don't think I would desecrate a body?"

"That was," Jack said slowly. "different. You did what you had to do."

"You're a better man than I am." Hammond looked at him, the effect was eerily bug-like with the glasses and balaclava, then turned away again before he continued. "I don't think I could forgive someone who turned me over to, to what those bastards were going to do."

"You didn't know."

"It's," Hammond took a heavy breath, and gave his head a little shake as if to clear it. "not the point," he finished. "We're discussing your options, remember?" The breeze blew, and he cringed visibly. "Dr Standish is willing to certify you as unfit for duty. You'd have to accept counseling, but you'd stay on Earth."

"You're unfit, and they're keeping you on active duty."

Hammond's head bowed. "If it comes to that, Dr Standish will classify you as dangerous." Standish and O'Neill had a history, and they could be sure she would follow through. "She'll coach you on how to support the claim, and how to get your freedom back later."

His freedom. If being unfit wasn't enough to keep him on Earth, being a danger to society would be. It would also mean being confined in a secure facility with dangerously unstable men for an unknown length of time, probably with the added bonuses of drugs and intensive therapy. It was a risk, and he would probably not be able to change his mind later. He fingered the blade in his lap, possibly the last real weapon he would ever lay his hands on. It felt odd, somehow, not like the ones he checked out for missions. The handle was smaller, a bit too curved, and had a rough spot in the center.

A quiet clicking noise drew his attention. He glanced around, wondering if a squirrel had found a nut under his chair. It took a moment to realize it was the General's teeth chattering.

"Options," Hammond repeated. "Put the dagger in your pocket, and I'll have you arrested for stealing it. General West will offer you a pardon if you accept the mission, but you can refuse. You'll have to serve some time, but then you'd have a mandatory discharge."

"Dishonorable discharge," Jack said bitterly.

"It sucks," Hammond agreed, using uncharacteristically coarse language. "But you'd be alive, and free."

Prison wouldn't be any fun, but at least he wouldn't be drugged there. "It wouldn't fly. They'll just say I forgot to sign the checkout sheet."

"That's not standard issue, it's mine. A souvenir from Vietnam, and very identifiable."

That explained the difference in its feel. And why Hammond hadn't brought him a gun from the weapons locker; he hadn't been there. Jack stared off at the trees, thinking. What choices he was being given! Go to jail. Go nuts. Go to the grave quickly. Or go on a mission that could very well drive him nuts and send him to his grave slowly.

His hand tightened on the blade.

He decided where he was going to go, but he wasn't going alone.

~oOo~

"You didn't know."

O'Neill's words pained Hammond more than his chest did, or his leg, or the cold. Three little words can change everything, as the poets say. Usually it referred to phrases like "I love you" or "let me help" or, more jokingly in the service, "request for transfer."

"You didn't know." Surprisingly innocent words from a man who had seen so very much in his life. The trust they implied shocked him.

Because he had known.

Not the details, certainly.

But he had known it would be terrible and agonizing. In societies with the ability to heal quickly, injuries need not be avoided, and extreme pain was often used for punishment. O'Neill himself described men having their hands pressed into fires and eyes gouged out for trivial mistakes. If those were minor penalties in Adel, what horrors would be considered serious consequences? Daniel Jackson had been told that O'Neill had been a recalcitrant slave and had required extreme disciplinary measures. They would surely go all the further against someone with that reputation. Hammond had known it would be bad.

And he had known it could go on for a long time. They were trading with Adel for their remarkable healing herbs, after all. He knew full well that O'Neill could sustain major injuries then be restored to receive more. There would be no guaranteed end if vital organs were damaged or too much blood lost. He had known it was far more likely to be slow than fast.

Even if he hadn't known any of that, he knew Jack O'Neill. He was a brave man, a noble man who had offered his life for others many times before. If he had known nothing else at all, this stout-hearted man's reaction to the news that he was being handed over to Adel would have told him how terrible things would be.

Oh, yes, he had known what would happen.

And he had done it anyway.

It was the right thing to do, he reminded himself. No one man was worth the lives of millions, no matter who he was, no matter what was done to him. He did what he had to do. Even the Colonel agreed with that.

"You didn't know." Those words would haunt him. O'Neill's enduring faith that he would not have done it if he had understood how it would end. The beleaguered man's misplaced trust in his so-called friend broke Hammond's heart more surely than any exertion ever could. He saw O'Neill's hand close on the hilt of the dagger, and half-hoped he would feel its blade.

~oOo~ The Price

Colonel Jack O'Neill, in full dress uniform, entered the courtroom – conference room, he reminded himself, the SGC had no official courtrooms – flanked by his full security detail, and two psychiatrists. He hobbled to the single seat at one side, making sure they all noted the cast that was still there, showing that he had not so far accepted the mission. The others automatically formed a semi-circle behind him. All of them remained standing.

Two Generals sat in the center of a semicircle facing him. A pair of Senators were outside them, a pair of Pentagon military officials after that, and a pair from civilian oversight on the outside. Jack had a fleeting image of them as a chess set, and wryly decided that West was the queen. They even had a set of pawns in their own security team, which was ranged along the walls that ran from one side to the other, and headed by Colonel Winchester.

"Colonel, you may be seated." General West informed him.

Jack remained standing.

General West's carefully blank expression did not change in the slightest.

"Colonel O'Neill," West started the proceedings without preamble. "You requested this meeting to obtain approval for certain special conditions required for your upcoming mission to Brekke, the only other known source of the herbs that can cure the pandemic. We here have been given the authority to speak for the President of the United States" – General Hammond next to him inclined his head – "and for the Congress" – the Senators bobbed their heads in turn – "and for the military" – their nods were sharp as salutes – "and for the public" – the final pair nodded. What can we do to speed you on your way?"

"After the first mission to Adel, you asked for my help to deal with them and told me I wouldn't have to so much as speak to them," Jack began, just as emotionlessly as West. "I was given assurances by all of your groups." He paused. "And then you handed me over to Adel for execution. Have you been briefed on exactly how they were going to kill me?"

He looked at each in turn, knowing they had – it had been one of his requirements that they hear and repeat Lansing's notes to make sure they understood exactly what they had sent him into – but waiting to hear each and every one admit it aloud.

"General Hammond," he nodded to the man, "managed to fake my death by zat and get me home." He had considered saying it was at great cost to Hammond, but reconsidered when he realized it would point out the General's current weakness. The minor thanks of having the room set to 84 degrees for his comfort would have to do instead.

"After my unexpected return from being handed over," he could feel his anger building, and emphasized those two words, "that way, you held me in solitary confinement. Nothing in the room but me, a cot, and a toilet. Wouldn't want to give away who was in there by offering a magazine or anything," ok, he hadn't been able to resist that sarcastic comment.

"Now you pull me out and order me back to that planet to have a try with the other city. The one that's so much like Adel, where I've had such memorable experiences. I have two major issues with that."

He paused, trying to remain calm, then deciding that would actually be counter-productive here. "The doctors here," the pair in his troop inclined their heads to identify themselves, "say that I have "trust issues" because of your recent behavior." He was careful to phrase everything as their actions, to reinforce that he was holding them responsible. Now for the punch line. "Time for you to have a little skin in the game, gentlemen. You need to make up my team."

Every member of their security detail promptly stepped forward with a smart stomping sound, offering themselves.

West waved at them. "Take your pick, Colonel. Any or all."

"Oh, no, General." He paused again, for effect. "Offering up more officers you barely know really isn't taking a direct stake in this."

"You want us…personally?" One of the Senators spoke, clearly not believing his ears.

Jack could hardly resist a grin as he watched the realization sink in. "I'm your best chance to succeed in Brekke, and putting yourselves in the field is your best chance to help me do that."

The Senator who had spoken now spluttered. The military men, Major Davis and another man he didn't know, looked ready to do it.

The other Senator quickly came up with a way out. "There's no time to familiarize ourselves with the customs there. You'll have to take the existing backup teams."

He was ready for that. "They can be our escorts, and can handle interfacing with the public for you. I'll talk to my counterpart in Brekke. But you have to be the ones to report to me."

"Why?" General West's tone was wary.

"This brings us to my second issue. Adel and Brekke are very physical places, and as you know, I will be required to strike anyone who fails me in the smallest way. According to the doctors, after all the unfairness," he couldn't resist a little emphasis on that word either, "I've experienced recently, I may have difficulty hitting an *innocent* man."

"What has that to do with us?" the Senator asked. Every other head turned his way in incredulity.

"I don't believe Colonel O'Neill considers us innocent, Senator," Major Davis explained.

~oOo~ The Mission

Jack O'Neill sighed, staring out the window of his tower room and absently digging the point of his dagger into the sill. Somewhere in the distance was the Stargate, and lucky men coming and going home as they took shifts holding it for "Cheyenne Mountain City," which had taken control of it after contact was made with both cities. He'd managed to establish trade with Brekke, but both sides wanted him to oversee the operations personally.

Earth leaders had ordered him to stay; the situation was still too delicate all around. Mackintosh was doing better, and had shown his value by getting a lot of herbs for items Earth considered quite minor, but the new council of Adel frequently added demands as ways of legitimizing the fledgling government by making Cheyenne show respect. O'Neill had other issues. It helped that Brekke wanted to catch up to their rival in trading with the resurrected third city, but on the other hand their feelings at not being the first ones contacted by Cheyenne hindered things. The new competition between cities to do business with Cheyenne helped them both, but there was no guarantee that things would not blow up again. They all knew how tiny errors could very quickly lead to big setbacks.

Kelta, leader in Brekke, had eerily echoed O'Neill's own words to General West about having skin in the game. Given the fragile new conditions with Adel and the loss of control of the area around the Stargate, they wanted to keep physical custody of the highest ranking official from Cheyenne that they had met. O'Neill had the run of the fortress, but was always trailed by attentive servants inside and a bodyguard contingent outside. His cage was nicely gilded from a material standpoint, but a cage nonetheless. Neither side was going to let him go anywhere. He was alone here; it was too risky to keep his "direct reports" in Brekke with him, their lack of cultural knowledge would mean they'd slip up and he'd have to punish them. They visited, and he met with them privately. Servants loaned from Kelta performed all other services, and he could leave their discipline to their master if he chose.

He spent most of each day checking over shipments of healing herbs going out, and Earth food coming in. He hadn't made as good a bargain as Mackintosh had, but Cheyenne had managed to avoid trading weaponry to either side, though if it had been the only way, they would have. They traded some base metals and other things, but the food had been the big hit here. Cheese, of course, but the citrus fruits were the major sensation. So here he sat, running the galaxy's biggest lemonade stand as his host, Kelta, gushed and the rest of the city suffered around them.

Brekke was much like its rival, Adel, had been; might made right here. They had agreed to the POW swaps, at least, but often there were delays as they interrogated prisoners before returning them. The tactics were nothing short of vicious since the detainee knew he'd be healed eventually, and would not be enslaved, but the benefit to the soldiers had an unexpected impact on the civilians. With the source of new slaves cut off, their price had gone up. Entrepreneurs had begun launching raids into the countryside to capture and enslave undefended civilians from the opposing city. A few forward-looking trainers were starting breeding programs to grow their own slave stock and had tried to bargain for fertility drugs to increase the yield on their "crops." To top the whole sick mess off, slaves were treated worse than ever as the ruling class tried to avoid the fate of their enemy by reinforcing that the indentured were not even human so they would never dream of uprising. The tiniest mercy was met with scorn or suspicion by other free men, and quickly countered with cruelty.

He ground the knife in harder as he thought about that. He had no choice but to match his host's brutality toward the slaves. He'd once forgiven a servant with a casual word when the girl had spilled a bit of wine. She hadn't returned at any meal since. It was common for Kelta to remove things from his guest's presence if they had caused offense, so he hadn't given it much thought. Then, after a fall into a cold pond, he'd been rushed to the closest fireplace, which happened to be in the kitchen. The servant girl was there, sobbing as she tried to pour milk for the cook's recipes. Finding Jack's rebuke insufficient, Kelta had had her fingers broken and left to heal on their own. The girl would suffer daily as she struggled to work with her injured hands. Jack had suggested that might be a bit much, and Kelta had assured him that she was just learning her lesson by waiting to recover naturally after which her hands would be restored by crushing the bones and healing them properly with herbs.

Jack had certainly learned *his* lesson from the experience, disciplining every little transgression quickly and violently. At least he had convinced Kelta that he found it more intimidating to the slave if he did it personally. Kelta typically had his enforcers impose punishment, and the results were creative, bloody, and long lasting. In contrast, Jack now sat back and had his borrowed slaves do every little thing for him. When someone transgressed, he was therefore always empty-handed and used only his fists and feet and general intimidation to impose correction. It made his flesh crawl to attack these people as they cowered before him, and half the obscenities he yelled were actually at himself for doing it, but for all he terrorized them it was far more merciful than the physical rending Kelta dealt out.

There was a sound outside, a distant baying, as the sun slid from view. He'd started taking daily breaks before dinner to hear it. Like the "twilight bark" in Disney's 101 Dalmatians movie, the rahi called out to each other at night, sharing news and bragging of the day's triumphs. Most of it was about challenging hunts and successful mating, and he suspected they embellished as much as any human males in locker rooms, but they also brought him news. *There were half-breeds in the hills, silly creatures who moved with commendable stealth but then only pounced on plants.* That would be the science teams, secretly trying to figure out why the plants grew so much better here than on Earth so they could raise their own crops. *A group of Partners had scared all the game away northwest of the city with their loud noise and campfires.* Possibly a raiding party, he'd find a way to send some of Kelta's men out that way. *The big circle lit up four times that day, also scaring game near there, and half breeds went through each time with their rolling boxes.* That told him that both Adel and Brekke had shipped herbs out that day, and everything was on schedule. The rahi actually appreciated the gate opening so regularly; they would lie in wait for prey leaving the area and, conveniently for the SG teams there, yell their anger at any Partners that diverted their easy dinner. It would be very hard for anyone from Adel or Brekke to sneak up on the gate.

~oOo~

"Why was she even *here*?" he demanded angrily, face inches away from the messenger's.

"Female operatives have been here all along," he responded acidly. "You would never have known if she hadn't gone and got herself caught."

Wrong thing to say. Jack had him pinned to the wall by his throat, feet dangling inches from the floor before he could utter another syllable.

"Is there a problem, my friend?" Kelta stood in the doorway. Jack dropped the man, who fell in a heap at his feet.

Jack scowled at the man on the floor. "Benson was just leaving. West will be back tomorrow with word on how he has cleaned up the mess he made!" Benson, looking at him wide eyed, backed out of the room, nodding to show he understood the change in rotation. General West, O'Neill's least favorite messenger, would bring the news tomorrow, good or bad. "Tell him that I want them all removed immediately." He received more anxious nodding in return.

"Benson!"

The sharp word recalled the man. He returned but stayed safely out of arm's reach. "Sir?" He looked terrified – justifiably – of what O'Neill could do to him.

"Is Kelta's shipment on schedule?"

"Yes, sir. That - other matter - didn't affect it."

"Dismissed."

Benson left quickly.

"You are overly kind to one who angered you," Kelta said it mildly, and raised his hand in a casual gesture. He personally filled two goblets and carried them across the room.

"I need him to do something for me quickly," Jack told him, accepting one of the drinks.

"Send another to do the work while that one learns his lesson," Kelta suggested, raising his glass.

"I should," Jack answered equably, taking a drink from his goblet. He set it down and strolled toward the door Benson had used. "But I can't this time."

Kelta followed his guest out of the room, noting that he was not surprised to find his man Benson held by two of Kelta's for a third one's access. On the other hand, his esteemed guest had not hurried out to protect his minion, and even now did not order his release. Benson had his jaws clamped, and was whining.

"What were you going to do?" Jack asked the soldiers conversationally.

"Split his tongue for talking back and break the bones of his hands for failing to deliver what his master wanted." They waited for the command to continue.

"Sounds appropriate," Jack agreed.

Benson whimpered and tried to jerk his head back and forth to protect his mouth.

"But… I need him to get to work." Jack flicked one hand and Kelta's men stepped back. "Benson!"

The man, crouched on the ground, looked warily up at his master.

"Remind me to slit your tongue and break your hands next time you come back."

Kelta understood then; his friend was not being overly kind, just delaying punishment until it was more convenient. The anticipation would no doubt increase the impact of the event when it did happen.

"Y-yes, sir," Benson responded. He started to rise, stopping as the soldiers looked questioningly at him. "Th-thank you, sir." That mollified them and they stepped out of his way.

"Hold." Kelta said. To his credit, the one called Benson stopped, looking hesitantly at both men.

"Gramo, look upon this one." One of the three stepped close and stared at Benson. "Watch for his return. If he fails to ask for the correction he is due, you will remind him sternly of his duty."

"Yes, Kelta," the man affirmed.

Benson looked ready to faint.

Jack gave him a dismissive wave, and he bobbed his head and scurried off. Kelta watched his guest; the man did not look amused or appeased. The news this Benson brought must have been bad indeed.

Kelta tried to assuage his friend's anger; it was the thing to do for one's guest. The spicy vegetable dish he favored was brought, the musicians he preferred played, no unpleasant word was spoken near him, no disfigured slave offended his eyesight. Nothing helped. He even went so far as to offer one of his women.

Jack refused, telling Kelta that it would be considered impolite where Jack came from.

"But you clearly need relief," Kelta argued. "Ah! I have an idea. There is a fresh batch of women, just arrived this morning. I have not even inspected them myself. Perhaps you would like one of them for your own?"

Jack started to refuse, then seemed to reconsider, and accepted.

~oOo~

"Very nice," Jack commented, looking over his choices. The room was full to bursting with options. Brekke raided from Adel, of course, so the women were almost all blondes, though there was every shade from pale silver to deep gold. They were definitely fresh. "Ripe" might be a more accurate term; most still stank of sweat from flight and fear, their clothes dirty and torn. About a third had been cleaned up, their bright clean hair and white slave garments making them stand out like beacons among their unprocessed companions.

The room seemed to undulate like a wheat field in a breeze as all the heads turned, some facing the newcomers, some turning away. The pair of defiant blue eyes he expected to find meeting his gaze did not appear. What if Carter wasn't here? Benson said she'd disappeared that morning, and he'd been sure she'd be here when Kelta told him there'd been a raid, but what if it was coincidence? Kelta would be sure he left with someone; what would he do with a personal slave? He knew what he was expected to do with her, of course, but he hadn't really thought about the possibility of *not* finding Carter, and ending up with someone else. It would certainly complicate things, especially if Carter was not found elsewhere and he had to reject some unfortunate girl to get a chance to check for Carter in the next batch. The punishment for failing in direct personal service was among the most severe, and he didn't want to subject anyone to that. But what would the alternative be? Become so insatiable that he needed more than one? Start a collection of bedmates?

"You understand," his host cautioned, "that I cannot guarantee these. They are brand new as of this morning. They are untested and those who were not already mayree will be untrained."

"I'm pretty good at picking them. I'm sure I'll like what I get," Jack assured him. He continued walking along, glad that his height made it possible to scan over almost all of the women's heads. He paused, as if deciding which way to go.

He saw her, finally, near the back corner, a good tactical position for seeing what was going on. Her head was ducked, and she was mostly behind another woman, keeping mostly out of sight while she figured out what was going in the front of the room. She hadn't shown herself, so she probably didn't yet know it was him at the door. He relaxed; she looked worse for the wear, but basically intact. Even if she wasn't, he could have her healed quickly.

He had to make his choosing look good. Kelta must not realize that Carter had any special value to him, yet, or she could become a pawn in the game. He stopped in front of a tall woman with burnished gold hair and appraised her from head to foot. He reached out abruptly, captured her head with his left hand and kissed her. She stood stock still. He pulled her roughly to him with his free arm and again got no reaction in either direction. He released her with a little snort and continued along.

He took his time, insolently staring at their bodies as Kelta would expect. They parted before him like water, stepping back but not daring to try to hide. He paused by one with platinum hair and a tomboy-tough appearance enhanced by a black eye, moving on when she showed a mouth full of broken yellow teeth. He caught one watching him; she quickly looked down and nipped her lip between her teeth. Kelta frowned, and Jack did not want the girl to be punished for such a minor offense. He gave a little laugh and stepped close to her. As with the other, he held the back of her head and kissed her. Far from resisting, she responded, pressing herself against him and tentatively putting her arms around him. He took his time with the kiss - hey, might as well enjoy a perk or two when they came along - then stepped away.

His host smiled. "She is an excellent choice."

"For someone," he agreed. "She's definitely a winner." He looked her over again. She smiled at him timidly, making an odd expression combined with her overly wide, frightened eyes. Her hair was about the same shade as Carter's, but long and wavy. It was soft and fragrant, as was her skin, much of which showed through the slave garment, which was deliberately skimpy so potential buyers could get a good look.

"With the mood I'm in, though, I'm afraid I might hurt her. And it would be a shame to damage someone so willing..." he stroked her cheek, feeling her shiver at his words. "Let me look a bit more before I decide." He grinned at Kelta. "Besides, the shopping is a lot of fun!"

Kelta waved expansively around the room. "Take your time, my friend, take your time!"

Jack walked along. Kelta waved the friendly woman to walk between them.

"I think I'd prefer one with some fight," he commented as he neared the wall, hoping it was loud enough for Carter to hear, but realizing it sounded artificial. Or maybe not; he heard a gasp, almost a sob, from somewhere nearby, so at least one woman thought he sounded believable. Just in case, he made a grab at someone else first, a thin woman with poker-straight hair. It seemed a safe enough action; surely anyone but Carter who had heard his comment would act deliberately meek to avoid his rough intentions. To his surprise, she shoved his hand away. He smacked her cheek with the palm of his other hand. The flat contact made the blow sound much harder than it was, but still she fell, and the other women drew back from them both in fear, a high trill of partially suppressed shrieks rippling through the room. Kelta looked expectantly at him, waiting to hear if she would be his choice. He reached for her, intending to scare her into screaming if he had to, so that he could reject her for giving up too easily. She cringed and let out a frightened squeak.

He couldn't help but laugh at the silly sound.

Kelta politely chuckled with him, and waved the girl away. She scrambled away on all fours.

Jack knew it was time to choose. He took a step across the empty space that had formed around him when he struck the last woman and leered at a timid-looking girl who whimpered and seemed about to faint. With his best evil chuckle, he reached toward her, swerving at the last moment and grabbing the head of Carter, who was next to her. He bent as if to kiss Carter, and she reacted strongly, pushing him away and twisting her head. There was a fleeting impression of dark bracelets before he realized she must have had her wrists tied when she was captured. He took hold of her hair, then her collar, so her head was held back, and swung her around and up against him. He leaned down again for a kiss and she twisted her head away, revealing a bruise on the right side of her neck.

He bent his head toward her neck, and whispered an order softly in her ear. She obediently swiveled her head back to try to bite him, giving him reason not to actually kiss a subordinate officer. He laughed and pushed her away.

She stumbled but kept her feet and glared at him, raising her hands to ward off another advance. His attention was drawn to tThe torn sleeve of her local costume as it fell back to reveal four long bruises radiating out from the side of her arm, finger marks from a large hand that held her from behind.

"Impudent wench!" the host cried. "She will be punished."

"Allow me," Jack said, lashing out suddenly with a vicious backhand. He knew his team mate could handle it.

Carter ducked, grabbed his arm and tried to twist it behind him. He countered, and she abruptly found herself trapped against him. Her right arm was pinned between their bodies, her left twisted up behind her back by his left. Out of the corner of his eye, he knew she was looking at him, startled by the sudden change. She squirmed, gently then harder as she tested his hold and realized he had actually immobilized her. It was the best thing for them both at the moment. Play-acting or not, if he let her get away with too much in front of Kelta, he'd have no choice but to hurt her. He made a point of looking at Kelta as if a full-grown woman was as trivial to pin under his arm as a newspaper.

"What a comparison, eh?" His free right arm snaked out and captured the other blonde, who came willingly to him. He squeezed Carter's wrist to prompt her, and she jerked in his grasp while the one on the right snuggled up to him. Still pretending to ignore Carter, he leaned down and enjoyed a lingering kiss with the one on the right.

"So tempting," he said, looking fondly down on his right. "But I'm more in the mood for this today," he continued, looking to the left. It was his first close look at her face, and it startled him. She was crying real tears, her mouth twisted somewhere between a hysterical grin and a snarl. Even with the strange expression, her face was thinner than before. Had they tortured her for resisting her capture? The stress of that, and the healing herbs that utilized a body's own reserves, could quickly make her look gaunt, especially if they had injured her face. There was nothing he could do about it now. He leaned to kiss her as well, and she snapped at him again. "There's better uses for that mouth," he told her.

"So what do you think?" he asked his host. "Do you think I can turn this," he looked left and Carter squirmed on cue, "into this?" He looked right and the other rubbed against him, holding her head up for another kiss.

"Quite a challenge, my friend!" Kelta came closer and reached up to touch Carter's cheek. She jerked her head away. "I do not think such a one will ever be as cuddly as this," he moved to the other side and that woman encouraged his attentions as well. He shifted his gaze to Jack. "Why fight when you can have an eager playmate?"

"Because I won't regret taking out my aggression with this one." He looked Carter in the eyes. "She knows she's earned some discipline," he said sternly, watching her eyes widen. He squeezed her wrist and she tried again to escape. "Besides, she has spirit, I like that," Jack said. "And I want it all to myself. No one touches her but me," he ordered, giving a meaningful look at the male servants in Kelta's entourage. "Take her to my rooms. Draw her a bath and give her food and some pretty clothes."

A servant stepped up to do as he was bidden.

"Hands off, or else," he warned the man.

The servant's eyes bugged out. He nodded, looking with trepidation at Carter.

"As for you," Jack took Carter's chin in his right hand and made her look at him. "You go along nicely, get all clean and wait for me. If you make him," he indicated the servant, "touch you, I'll discipline you both. Understood?" He hoped she took the real warning in the words; he actually would have to discipline them both, and probably in front of Kelta. It was worth the risk, he thought, to make it clear from the beginning that no other man was to take casual liberties with his property. Most men here didn't care who did what to their slaves as long as they were available when he wanted them.

She nodded.

He released her with a little push in the servant's direction. The man leapt out of her way to avoid contact. He watched her walk away after the scurrying servant, noticing the stiffness in her uneven movement, more evidence of how hard she had fought her capture.

"Thank you for the gift," he told his host. "Very generous of you."

"You are most welcome, my friend. I hope she brings you pleasure. Come, let us dine while she is made ready."

They enjoyed a meal in the great hall, attended to by the women of his host. "This is the way women should be," Kelta said, stroking one. "All of mine are trained to be so."

"I noticed. Impressive," Jack said. _I also noticed your methods, you bastard._

"I'm sure yours will be equally pleasant," Kelta told him encouragingly.

Jack took the opportunity to point out that his hands-on training methods may not be as swift as his host's, to set the expectation that Carter would make some mistakes. It would ease things for them both.

**You want to dominate your females, not break them,** a voice commented from below the table. Kelta's rahi, Burro, approved Jack's style. **What use will cowed females be if the young need protection?**

Jack appreciated the support, but hoped it was not an indication that he was becoming more like an animal and less like a man. He was aware that Kelta's people thought his personal discipline was effective but bestial.

There was a bump under the table as Kelta prodded his rahi for growling. Burro warned him he'd lose his foot if he kept doing that. He could follow through, if he really wanted to; he was nearly the size of his Earth namesake. Nothing but the best and biggest for Kelta.

"Please, let Burro be," Jack said. "It, uh, does you both credit if he is allowed to talk." He had made friends with the rahi but had so far avoided letting Kelta know about being able to talk to them. His host thought he was just an animal lover.

Burro had a similar amused but tolerant attitude toward his new half breed friend, and his vegetarianism. He recommended a diet of badger to build up the rahi side of Jack's pedigree. Raw, of course. Cooking was considered an insult by rahi even when it was done to badgers – any animal that fell in battle deserved to have its fresh flesh and blood return to the life cycle – but they accepted that their human partners were too weak to eat fresh meat. After all, if the humans were strong hunters, they would not need the rahi to hunt for them.

"Talk!" Kelta snorted. "You act as if the beast has a mind."

"Rahi are smarter than you give them credit for, my friend," Jack smiled and toasted his host, then changed the subject. "More bread, please."

Below them, Burro agreed that his race wasn't appreciated, except perhaps by the new half-breeds like Jack, and suggested – again – that Jack should learn to eat badger like a proper beast.

Jack didn't respond to that. He and all his people had refused meat of any kind here, and made sure the rahi were aware of it. He hadn't yet told them that the other humans ate rahi as well as badgers; it would make for one hell of a diversion if he ever needed it. If they found out from the Adel rahi, he and his people would act surprised.

Dinner ended early, Jack being eager to return to his rooms and his gift.

~oOo~

Samantha Carter paced around the room again. Six steps from the fireplace across the lush carpet to the picture window. Three to the right, past the door to the bedroom, two more to the wall, six steps back across to the entry door, and six to return to the fireplace. The furniture was heavy wood that still managed to glow with a burnished gleam despite having elaborate carvings on every exposed inch. The cushions on them were thick and jewel toned like the dress she wore. The gown had intricate layers of a velvet like material in shades of peridot, and she wondered if it was coincidence or if they knew it was the Colonel's favorite. After she figured out how to get the complicated outfit on, it had been interesting for a while to feel it swish around her ankles as she walked and watch the various colors appear and disappear as the panels of cloth slid over one another. It had helped to distract her as she recovered from the shock of seeing the Colonel alive, and on this planet, of all places. Then it had been annoying, the touch and motion getting on her already taut nerves. Eventually she had grown used to it, and ignored it as she continued her circling of the room.

As she was passing the elegant day-bed positioned to allow the user to stretch full length in front of the warm hearth, she suddenly found herself thrown down onto it. She managed a short yelp before a hand covered her mouth.

"Quiet!" a voice commanded sharply.

It was frighteningly familiar, but it couldn't be, it just couldn't be her own CO pinning her down under his body. It was understandable in the holding room, in front of the others, but not here. Had he gone too far, as some of the messengers had claimed, and really taken to the violent lifestyle here? No one had ever seen him so afraid of a place before, not even when they went on a mission to Netu, the Goa'uld version of Hell. Maybe being sent back to this personal hell had driven him over the edge. She struggled against the weight and the steely grip on her.

"Carter, it's me, we're being watched," he whispered into her ear. "Understood?"

She relaxed, practically melting with relief. It *was* him, and he wasn't crazy. She nodded as best she could with his palm on her mouth.

"Good," he said, getting off of her, and pushing her off the other side of the daybed. "Go in the bedroom," he waved toward it.

She leaped up urgently because the fire was licking at her dress.

He laughed, presumably for the viewing audience, and said she *should* be afraid after the way she'd behaved downstairs.

It was a cue, she realized, and she hurried away from him toward the bedroom, glancing back in mostly-pretend fear as he followed.

She stopped in the room, not sure what to do next. Surely he wouldn't carry the act any further? He couldn't. He wouldn't. Not normally. But what if they were being watched, even here? There would be no choice; they didn't dare risk the crucial trade with Brekke for their own safety. But why would he have even taken her from the holding room if it would come to this? She answered her own question: because temporary servitude to one of her own was still better than becoming a permanent slave on an alien world.

She turned as he approached, assessing him for the first time as an opponent. He had the advantage in reach, weight, and experience. If he got a solid hold on her, it would be all over. She was angry at herself for even thinking that; she would never have such a hopeless attitude if a strange man was coming at her, even an officer of any military of any planet. It was only her knowledge of the Colonel's prowess that was scaring her. Well, she had some skills of her own, she reminded herself. Plus, she had the advantage in intelligence and possibly speed. If she kept her head, and thought fast, she might be able to escape him and the room. But then what? She would never get all the way out of the castle-like fortress past Kelta's men. She'd end up right back here, having done nothing but force the Colonel to discipline her. She swallowed and let him come close.

"They watch all the time out there," he told her quietly, his eyes on his own hands. "Make sure you keep up the act everywhere but here."

"Yes, sir." She nodded, trying to hide her relief. How could she have thought he would hurt her? She chalked it up to the emotional rollercoaster of the day, being captured then rescued from slavery by her resurrected friend.

"Are you ok? Did they hurt you? You look…different." His eyes were searching her face, and one hand touched her shoulder, rubbing against the bone that was beginning to stick out on top.

"They roughed me up a bit when they grabbed me, but I've had worse. I've, uh, lost a little weight lately with all the stress." She tried to make light of the big question. "You know, plague at home, tragic death of my commanding officer."

He grimaced. "That wasn't my call. West put me in isolation and told everyone I was dead. Offered to follow through on that if I didn't take the mission."

Her turn to grimace.

"They never told you, huh?"

"No, sir. I thought I was hallucinating when I heard your voice in that dungeon." She smiled at him. "I'm glad you're alive, sir, even if I ended up here." She twitched the heavy material of her clothing and chuckled dryly. "*Especially* since I ended up here."

"Good. My pajamas are on the bed. Take that dress off!"

She blinked, wondering again. The dress was modest enough, long folds showing off her shape without revealing much skin. It was probably much warmer than the other clothes, too. The only seeming advantage of the pajamas was maneuverability; was there a chance they'd need to defend themselves from some sort of attack?

He turned his back to her. "Do it, Carter."

She hesitated a moment, then obeyed. It took a few minutes to work her way out of the voluminous fabric. Shivering in the cool room, she quickly pulled on the pajamas, rolling up the cuffs on top and bottom. She wondered again about the switch; the oversized clothes might actually be harder to defend herself in than a well fitting dress, but what other reason would he have for the order?

"Done, sir."

He turned and took the dress from the bed. Grabbing the neckline, he ripped it viciously down one side. Continuing to tear it to ribbons, he told her in no uncertain terms that he did not want to see her in "things like this" except when they had to socialize with Kelta.

She watched in stunned silence, wondering when he'd become such a vehement fashion critic.

When he had finally finished with the cloth and kicked it into a corner, he flopped backward onto the bed and covered his face with one arm. "_God_, Carter. You don't know what this place is like." His voice sounded strained.

She didn't respond right away, so he moved his arm to check on her. After a moment, he stood back up and faced her. "Wait, you *do* know what this place is like, right?" It sounded almost like a plea.

She was surprised by his tone, and began to see why the messengers wondered about him. Sticking to the facts, she answered. "Yes, sir. I was in Adel, and I've been briefed on Brekke."

"Carter, this isn't the worst case scenario, but it's bad." He looked away, then back again. "If you screw up while we're here, I'm going to have to hurt you." The words came out in a rush, as if he was pushing the detestable things away from his tongue.

"I know, sir."

"Do you?" His eyes bored into hers now. "Do you know that if I don't hit you hard enough, Kelta will reinforce my discipline with his?" He told her about the maid's hands.

She must have been gaping at him because he told her to close her mouth.

"Look, I'm sorry, Carter, but if anything happens, I have to respond, and it has to really hurt." He hesitated for a moment before adding, "Try not to hate me for it."

"Oh, no, sir, I know it's mission parameters," he hurried to reassure him. "I would never hold it against you." She wondered if she would still feel that way if she had to endure something as gruesome as working for weeks with broken fingers.

~oOo~

In the morning, she donned another of the dresses, as would be considered proper. It was long like the other, of a velvet-like material, this one shades of blue. The Colonel would not even look at her after she had it on. For his part, he slipped rings on each finger of his left hand, big gaudy gifts from Kelta that not coincidentally were well shaped to do double duty as brass knuckles. The man appreciated combining decoration and defense. When Jack had started doling out discipline personally, he had gone down to wearing one token ring each day, a big pinkie ring in a color to match the day's clothing. Today, the rings had a new purpose. He looked somberly at them as they sparkled on his hand.

They went down to breakfast, she trailing respectfully behind him. Kelta was at the head of the low table, and Jack took a place on one side. She sat on a cushion just behind him, as he had instructed earlier, leaving the ones right next to him empty.

Serving women brought out platters of food, dishing up heavenly-smelling delicacies onto the men's plates as they chose it. Kelta had a woman to either side who did not rise. Two of the serving women joined them, the set cuddling up around their master. The nearest began offering him tidbits of food. As he took it in his mouth, Sam saw his hand disappear inside the woman's dress.

It was one thing to hear about it, but another to see it going on. No wonder Mackintosh and O'Neill had chosen all-male teams. Biting her lip, she stayed quiet as their host fondled his women openly at the table. Apparently, the fancy drape of the dresses was not merely for style or warmth; it hid several openings meant for the master's access. It was a very sensual affair, the group of them pressed together as he accepted bites or indicated that they should be fed to another woman as he watched. His hands never touched food, only his ladies. He enjoyed himself freely, not caring that he had company at the table.

Or maybe he did. Kelta frowned at Jack halfway through the meal. "Why do you not partake, friend? Is your gift not to your liking?"

Carter thought he meant the food until she heard her co's response.

"I'm enjoying her body, Kelta, and I thank you again," he kept to the formalities first. "But she's an idiot. She has no idea how to do anything!" He laughed coldly. "As a matter of fact," he turned to a servant waiting along the wall, "send up some bread and fruit to my room tonight so she can practice."

Kelta looked almost offended. "You should not be lowering yourself to such duties! Allow one of my men to train her, and she will be serving you by dinnertime, no matter how slow-witted she may be."

"Thank you again, Kelta, but I want to do it myself," Jack responded formally, before sliding his most evil grin across his face. "I'm enjoying the discipline, if you know what I mean."

"It is good to hear you laugh, my friend," Kelta smiled widely at him. "I must admit I had begun to wonder if you were ever anything but solemn or angry."

Carter quickly hid her expression of surprise at the comment. Jack O'Neill always solemn or angry? On the battlefield, sure, or in a tough spot on a mission. But here, where he was basically just monitoring trades that other people checked in detail? This was the sort of assignment where he normally couldn't hold back from casual games and jokes to while away the time. "Irreverent" or "cocky" or even "brat" were what you expected to hear describing the Colonel when he had too little to do. It explained a lot, really; if he continually felt like he was on a battlefield, the stress would account for his behavior with the messengers, especially if they were relaxing in what he considered to be a combat situation. How long could anyone continue under that kind of pressure?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a hand in her hair, slamming her head down onto something firm. She was pinned at an awkward angle, staring up at the Colonel with her cheek on what must be his leg.

"I said," he pronounced slowly and clearly, "fill my cup, mayra." He shoved her away, and she fell to the floor, grateful that they sat on the low cushions instead of at a high table.

She scrambled to obey, hastily grabbing a pitcher and nearly spilling it. Remembering the maid, and trembling at the near miss, she shakily poured his cup full. The liquid was thick and red like blood, and she hurriedly averted her eyes from it and set the container back on the table.

"Mayra," he said with slow anger the moment it touched down. "Come before me."

She huddled before him, head on her knees, hands outstretched with palms down as he had shown her last night.

"There will be punishment, mayra."

She nodded her head to show she had heard him, but did not speak since he had not asked a question.

"It will be done tonight so it doesn't interfere with the day's work. How will you remind me, mayra?" He was using the premise of her stupidity to walk her – and the watching Kelta – through things. If she transgressed only against her master, he could choose to dole out the penalty in private.

She sat up and reached for his left hand, sliding one ring off of it and placing it on his right.

"Good, mayra," he complimented, then cupped her chin in his right hand and put his left before her eyes, the remaining rings twinkling as they moved. "You have four chances left for the day. If you use them all up before evening and I have to stop what I'm doing to discipline you, there will be a sixth punishment. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very nice," Kelta approved. "Simple enough for her slow wit. Do you think she is intelligent enough to anticipate the evening? Building up fear can add to the impact of your message."

Carter wondered how often Kelta had cultivated terror in his slaves for that reason.

Jack snorted. "We'll see."

"I have saved the eager woman, my friend. If this one proves too slow to learn, you may trade."

"Thanks," Jack toasted his host with the goblet, "I'll think about it."

They finished the meal without further incident. When they left, the men walked first and the women trailed behind. With a sympathetic glance, one surreptitiously whispered that perhaps it would ease her master's temper if she fed him well next time. Carter appreciated the encouragement, but was surprised about the comment. She didn't realize that the chamber maid had found the shredded gown, and word had spread like wildfire that the guest who was comparatively lenient with his fists during the day was apparently more violent than even Kelta at night.

~oOo~

General West was framed almost regally in the doorway as the mayree opened them to admit him to Jack's presence, his posture like a man expecting appeasement and ready to administer discipline if he didn't get it.

Jack just waited, comfortably ensconced on a cushy chair on the other side of the room.

West paused for just a moment, then realized he was not going to get the reaction he wanted. He walked forward, and one of the door-opening mayree stirred the coals in a large bucket before leaving with his partner. The action had the intended effect of making West look at what the slave was doing. It didn't take him long to recognize that the coals, pokers, and bench matched the description of the first step in O'Neill's own torture in Adel.

West glanced along the room, seeing that the implements for the rest of the steps were arranged in order, marking a kind of path to where Jack sat. He fixed his gaze on his subordinate and strode to him.

"What do you think you are playing at?" West demanded.

"The mission I was given in Cheyenne." Jack stared straight at him, daring him to maintain his tone.

West took a breath, calming himself. "I understand you are upset. Benson never should have told you. It's not like you can do anything from in here." He'd read the reports, he knew the Colonel was under near constant observation and his ability to do anything covert was extremely limited. He could ask for just about anything, but how could he ask his host to find a woman who had been on a secret mission on his land? He raised a hand in sympathy and assured Jack they would continue to search for Carter.

"I have what you lost," Jack said coldly. He couldn't speak freely since Kelta's minions were no doubt watching and listening. He'd thought ahead about what he *could* say, and had taken the trouble of going on a long walk and gathering an assortment of small objects on the way. Hopefully Kelta would think one of them was an important object dropped by a Cheyenne messenger.

West was surprised. "Really? Good. That's resolved then."

"You think so?" Jack was, if anything, more upset at that. "You know the scenario. This puts the mission at risk." He watched as West frowned. "I want to hear options tomorrow."

West nodded. Simple enough to assign people to think of ideas when he returned to base.

"The rest of them need to be removed to prevent another issue."

"They have been," West assured him.

"Are you lying to me, or did they lie to you?" his voice was low, ominous.

West's eyes widened. "How could you know – I mean, they lied to me, sir. I was told they were all gone."

*Liar* Burro, stretched out by the fire, curled his lips back, showing multiple rows of sharp teeth in addition to the ten-inch fangs outside them.

Jack didn't contest the point out loud. He and West both knew that West had lied, thinking that Jack had no way to know the truth. "Finish it. Now."

West took his radio from his belt and sent a carefully phrased order to the staff in the field. He clipped it back. "They were useful, you know."

"The risk/reward ratio doesn't support it." At least West hadn't brought up the equal-assignments rule that prevented gender from being a factor in selecting personnel for missions. That had been discussed before they ever came back. The rule had a specific exception for cases where one gender or the other faced additional risks, such as this planet, where female slaves were treated even worse than male. Priam was to have been the one and only exception, and that only because she was known for her quick thinking when negotiations got messy.

"We'll just have to differ on that. If there's nothing else, I'll be on my way." As an afterthought, he added, "Sir."

"If it isn't done, then there's that," Jack waved to the items between them and the doorway.

West gave him a scathing look. "How are you going to know?"

"I'll know." Jack had told the rahi, who were quite fond of the half-breeds, that it was breeding season and all the half-breed females should return to their mountain lairs. He'd asked the rahi to let him know if any were too involved in their hunt and failed to go through the circle. Some had gone back, but seven remained in the hills even now.

They waited, O'Neill seated and West standing before him. Servants came frequently, bringing refreshments or asking if anything was wanted. After a time, the General's radio crackled and he passed on the news that the women had gone home.

Jack gave him a disgusted look. "All of them."

West considered, as if debating whether to see if Jack was bluffing. Jack looked pointedly at the items in the room around them. West backed down, murmuring another order into the radio, and they went back to waiting.

They engaged in a little minor talk, but the room was mostly quiet. At one point, Burro coughed, and the sound echoed in the large area, emphasizing the silence.

Another servant came, and Jack took a drink from her, sipping as he watched her close the door. "They're gone now. You can leave." he told West.

West looked speculatively after the slave. "She brought you a message? Or is it in the cup?"

Jack smiled. "What matters is that they are gone. And if any are brought back, I'll know and I may not be able to control my temper." He paused as West had. "Sir."

The General gave him one more long, considering look. "Understood. Good day, sir." He turned and left.

Jack waited till the door closed and he was alone except for the watcher that he knew would be there. He lifted his cup, murmuring "thanks" when it was in front of his mouth.

At the hearth, Burro yawned and rolled over. *Happy to help. You should have bitten him, though.* The watcher would just see the beast grumbling as he changed positions.

Jack laughed, then sobered. Burro and his friends had worked out perfectly – the ones in the field reporting when the last female half-breed had really gone, and Burro passing on the news by coughing when his sensitive ears heard them in the distance. He was probably going to be in big trouble with West when he got home, though. And maybe Benson, if he resented Jack's flash of temper more than he appreciated his subsequent rescue from Kelta's men.

His thoughts were interrupted by a mayree announcing Kelta's arrival. A servant filled glasses for them both.

"You continue to be too kind to your men, honored guest," Kelta reproved gently. "You should have had them use at least a few of these items on your man."

"Anticipation is worse than reality, my friend. The fear of this will motivate him."

"I must admit you are creative when the mood moves you," Kelta complimented.

He hadn't actually been creative at all. He'd had all the things Adel was going to use on him set up for West's arrival, knowing the man would recognize them. His story would be that his own innocent mind couldn't come up with anything sufficient, so he'd used reference material from Adel. It might have been a bit overboard, but it was stressful enough with Carter, he didn't even want to *think* about having to find and play master to anyone else. He doubted he'd get away with the 'idiot' story with a second slave, and repressed a shudder at what he'd have had to do with any more female officers.

"When the mood moves me," Jack agreed, raising his glass.

Kelta returned the toast, and glanced around the room. "I am glad you are on my side, my friend."

~oOo~

By dinner time, four of the rings had migrated to the right hand. Keyna mused that the woman must indeed be dense. His guest had given her practically nothing to do other than sit where he could see her to whet his appetite for the evening, and she had still managed to offend. She could not seem to manage the most basic concepts, like not stepping ahead of her master.

Now she sat near him, not quite touching, but much closer than at the morning meal, and fed him from her hand. Her master looked suspiciously at her for a moment, then draped one hand loosely around her waist and accepted the tidbit.

Kelta noticed the change, and wondered yet again about the woman. She didn't have the general air of idiocy, despite her ridiculous errors. He had begun to think her stupidity was intentional, so that his guest would trade her for the woman who was eager to take her place. He'd bet with himself that she might drop things in his lap at the table to disgust him, or just hide out of sight on a cushion behind her master. But instead, she had become more pliant. She must enjoy relieving his anger, then. He grimaced at the thought, and his woman quickly removed the morsel that appeared to offend him.

She did not last long, failing to even hold food properly. His guest threw her to the ground and ordered her to remain out of his sight. He did not even allow her to move the fifth ring to his other hand.

~oOo~


	4. Chapter 4

~oOo~

"Are you really this stupid?" Jack demanded the moment the door closed behind them. The servant noted the raised voice as he took his leave, and reported to his own master that their guest was again angry.

"Sir?" she was uncertain what she had done.

He advanced angrily toward her, and she backed away automatically. He pursued her all the way into the bedroom, where they would not be watched. "You're supposed to be too dumb to serve at dinner, remember? What were you *thinking*?"

"I was trying to avoid the last ring and be like the other women," she explained, still startled by his vehemence.

"You're not *supposed* to be like them!" he hissed at her, getting right in her face. "A little more of this and he'll expect you to serve at meals. What if we can't get back to normal on SG-1 again after, if we have to, if – didn't they ever teach you about maintaining a cover story?"

"I, I just…"

He had to get out of there before he said something he'd regret later. "You'll just stay here. In the room. In that damned dress. Don't talk to anyone. Don't try to be anyone! Those are real orders and I expect you to follow them, Major." He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

~oOo~

Kelta found Jack in the garden. It wasn't hard; his minions kept tabs on guests at all times. They had told their master that his honored guest was angry. A maid sent on an invented errand reported that the golden haired woman sat in the room and refused to speak. Clearly, the gift wasn't working out. He gave his orders, then waited until his guest's fury seemed to abate – the jerky pacing turned to walking, then he sat and rubbed his heel into the hard soil roughly enough to make a small trench and eventually sat back and just looked around – before joining him on the bench.

~oOo~

"The season is pleasant, my friend," Kelta began politely.

It wasn't, especially, given that it was the cold season here, but he could hardly be expected to come outside and say that the weather stunk. Winter here wasn't like Colorado. The air was uncomfortably chilly, and the frequent rain gave it a raw feel in addition to generating a constant layer of mud atop the nearly frozen ground, but many of the plants survived year round so at least the landscape was never bare. Tonight it was nippy, with clouds scudding across the triple moons warning of yet another downpour to come by morning.

Jack, knowing he had to maintain his role, tried to think of what Daniel might say to respond in kind. He used the obvious physical prompts, the evening and the cider-mill scent on the breeze. "I was enjoying your gardens, friend. Moonlight and cinnamon soothe the soul, they say."

"And are you in need of soothing?" Kelta asked cautiously. One tended one's guests more carefully than a garden, and yet, like flowers, too much fertilizer would hurt more than help.

"Not anymore, friend," Jack clapped him on the shoulder. He had to say something to cover Carter's behavior. "I had been …. annoyed… with her." He didn't need to say who. "Sometimes she seems to try, other times she seems to offend on purpose. She is capricious," ten points for using that word in a sentence! Have to remember to tell Daniel when we get home. "Disobeyed the moment we were alone. I wasn't in the mood for that tonight."

Kelta smiled. "Perhaps you are in the mood for this!" He waved his hand, and the other blonde woman came forward from the shadows. Obviously prepared for the occasion, she looked beautiful and delicate in a flowing blue dress that teamed with her golden hair to set off her skin and eyes. She approached smoothly, the dress undulating about her, and fluttered gently down beside him like flower petals in the wind. She even smelled soft and sweet.

Jack's eyes widened. Damn it! He'd set himself up perfectly for this. Why the hell did *he* have to be the one playing Mr Politician? He couldn't refuse, since that would insult Kelta. But he couldn't exactly trade in Carter either. Crap. What would Daniel do? Or Hammond? Probably better than he ever could. Better to do this his own way, a way he figured Kelta would understand as well.

"This is sooo generous of you to offer, Kelta. Of course, I will miss the pleasure of bringing the other under control."

Kelta, as predicted, understood. "I enjoy the occasional recalcitrant woman as well," he agreed. "Although," he hesitated a bit, "she seems to almost enjoy the rougher interaction."

Jack jumped on the opportunity. "You may be right about that." He pretended to consider. "So do you think if I use non-physical punishments it will work better?" He held his breath; if Kelta started discussing training methods it would mean he could keep Carter. He smiled a bit. "I could make her wear men's clothes!"

Kelta chuckled. "Try that, friend!"

Jack grinned conspiratorially back at him. "I will!"

~oOo~

Carter looked up as the door opened. He saw her stiffen as she saw that the other blonde woman was with him. The thoughts flickered through her mind, obvious to him since he knew her so well. Surprise that he had done it, realization that Kelta probably forced the decision, finishing with an attempt at bravery as she faced real, potentially permanent slavery on this brutal planet. Millions of lives on Earth were at stake; they both knew he would have to sacrifice her if there was no other way.

She went over to them.

"Sir?"

"Finally showing some respect! Good girl," he said mockingly. He took her chin in his hand and made her look at him. He smiled, but it was more like baring his teeth. "Remember our little conversation from earlier, do you?" He waited for her to nod, hoping she realized it was a reference to maintaining their roles until this rotten mission was over. "Good. Kelta gave me another gift," he held out his arm and the woman came into it. "Someone to please me and show you what it is to be a woman here." He released her. "She," he looked fondly at the woman, who smiled back at him," has earned a woman's trappings." He looked back at Carter. "You haven't," he said coldly. "Go change into trousers."

Carter went into the dressing room to change. She could hear Jack and the woman in the lounge area. He told her to sit.

"What's your name?" Jack asked.

"Whatever you wish it to be, my master."

"Don't call me that!" he snapped, feeling her tense, then press herself against him again. He could feel her heart pounding. The girl was scared to death. "Call me Jack," he said more gently.

"Yes, Jack."

"And what should I call you?"

"Cinnamo? You said cinnamon soothes you in the moonlight."

He frowned. "Why don't you want to tell me your real name?"

She looked down at her hands. "A mayra has no name but what her master gives her."

He suppressed a growl at that word. God, he hated this assignment! All he could say was, "You can talk to me. I would never hurt you."

"I would never give you reason to," she assured him hurriedly.

"So tell me your name." She hesitated. "Why is that so hard?"

"It is forbidden to lie to your master. But it would shame my family to have it known that I…"

"That you were taken as a slave? It's not your fault." He didn't actually know that, but even if it were her fault somehow, it had to be an accident. She sure as hell didn't do this on purpose.

She bowed her head in shame. "I have not resisted since I learned that I was at Kelta's own compound. Everyone has heard of how he… trains … mayree. I am afraid." She felt his shudder, misread the disgust for anger. Too late, she recalled what she had heard about the shredded dress, about this man being even more vicious than the fearsome Kelta. She looked up quickly, eyes wide. She rubbed against him. "Let me please you, my - Jack."

He took her hands gently in his and sat back, separating them a bit. She held still but for her trembling, clearly afraid that she had upset him already. "Just talk to me."

Carter stood in the dressing room, listening as the woman hesitantly told him that she had a family. A grieving father. Sisters whom she missed, but who would take care of her son. The unintended admission forced another. Carter could hear the woman's voice shake as she revealed that she had a husband, clearly uncertain of how her master would react to that news. It made her, and her plight, suddenly more real. This wasn't a rival, or even an eager servant despising another's reluctance. She was a person with a life, a family, at least until a few days ago. A woman so terrified of Kelta's punishment that she offered herself with feigned eagerness.

Jack gave Carter a look as she entered and sat on the other side of the couch. "Carter, this is Cinnamo. Cinnamo, Carter."

Carter felt nothing but compassion for the woman now. "I hope we can be friends," she said gently.

He looked at them sitting next to one another. Both had blonde hair and blue eyes and wore blue clothes. But where Cinnamo's mane was long, Carter's was close cropped. Where Cinnamo was soft and vulnerable, Carter was strong and confident.

"What are you grinning at?" Carter asked.

"You look like her brother!"

~oOo~

The next day's messenger was General Hammond. Jack didn't recognize him at first, but that was probably intentional. Some self-tanner darkened his skin to an almost swarthy shade, but his face was different as well. They'd given him silicone injections to change his appearance indefinitely, in case he ran into anyone from Adel. While he could admit that he served both Mackintosh and O'Neill, they'd rather avoid that possibility. One bonus was that he had had to be healed in order to play his part as messenger, sparing him weeks or months of recovery and returning him to his command position.

Unfortunately, they had few ideas of how to get Carter out. Merely sending her to Cheyenne was impossible; it would insult Kelta if his gift was promptly sent away. He could say that she had incurred a special punishment or was being sent to be modified in some way, but in either of those cases, she'd have to come back later. As a supposed fool, they couldn't say she had special skills needed in the mountain. Their best idea so far was to stick it out for a month, claim she was pregnant, then get someone from Cheyenne to examine her and say the baby was at risk and she should be monitored in the mountain city. Even that was risky. What if the herbs were known to fix issues with unborn babies? What if Kelta wouldn't believe he wanted a child born at all? With a mayree mother, it could never be free, and who would want to see any version of his own features on a slave?

Jack related how he had nearly lost Carter after just one day, and Hammond promised to keep working on options.

General Hammond did have one idea about how to mitigate General West's anger. Next time West came as messenger, Jack would simply walk him around the place. It was so common to see a mayree being punished, or abused without reason by bored free men, that West would get a much clearer picture of just how rough Brekke was physically. He may not entirely forgive Jack threatening him with the torture he himself had faced, but he would realize that Jack could not ignore things or dole out trivial disciplines.

~oOo~ Settling In

Cinnamo's arrival had complicated things at first, but as the days went by they worked out everyone's roles.

First, there were the sleeping arrangements. The first night, he'd said he'd already had Carter and didn't want Cinnamo. The second night, he'd had a brainstorm and menaced Carter into the bedroom while Cinnamo waited in the living area. He'd proceeded to tickle Carter until she shrieked for a while, then shoved her out of the bedroom still red in the face and gasping. The whole thing terrified poor Cinnamo but pretty well ensured she'd leave the personal service to Carter. Cinnamo would be more likely to fight a rahi barehanded than seduce her master. From then on, if he was in a good mood, he and Carter would do calisthenics on the bed for the sound effects, and if not, he'd send Cinnamo out on an errand while he 'disciplined' Carter. If he couldn't think of an errand, and wasn't in a good mood, he would tickle Carter again.

For actual sleeping, he usually just took the bed for himself and the women slept by the fireplace in the other room. On a few stormy nights, when the fierce wind outside sucked air from the chimney and made a fire hard to maintain, he invited them to share the warm bed with him. Those nights, he would laugh to himself at his luck; sandwiched between two pretty blondes in bed – women who were obligated to obey his every command, no less! – and morally unable to do more than share body heat.

Meal times were a confusion of mandatory yet forbidden pleasure. He could and did say that Carter was still not ready to serve. He had no such protection to offer Cinnamo. She snuggled up to him, and he slipped his hand inside her dress and lay it idly on her soft warm belly as she fed him. If she was to eat, though, he either had to feed her himself, or borrow one of Kelta's women for his other hand so they could lasciviously feed each other as he watched. He didn't risk that; he really didn't want to fondle some strange woman at every meal, and he didn't actually have to. But if he didn't, she would probably be required to tell Kelta she had failed to arouse him, and suffer the consequences. That meant he had to feed Cinnamo himself.

It started stiffly, two actors playing parts neither wanted. They curled together like lovers, eating from each other's fingers, faces inches apart, yet awkwardly avoiding eye contact. Gradually, to protect her from Kelta's suspicious gaze, he began to play the occasional sensuous game with the food and their mouths. As the days went by and she realized it would not be her that he retired with after meals, she responded with gambits of her own. At the twice daily meals, they teased and tasted and touched.

It was sexy and fun and heady, like flirting to the n-th degree. It was safe, with Carter as chaperone. He had to do it; he was protecting Cinnamo, his cover, Carter, and the vital mission. Still, he could not abandon himself to the pleasure; it was wrong. He was an air force officer on a mission, growing fond of her but not in love. At least not yet. She was a slave and another man's wife.

~oOo~

His arm slipped comfortably around her. Too comfortably, he realized. It was the end of another long day of keeping up proper appearances for Kelta, and he had been looking forward to seeing her. She always greeted him with a gentle hug, led him to the couch where a drink would be waiting, and curled up next to him as his tension eased. The best physical contact he had all day here. And better than most days back on Earth, for that matter. It was a welcome relief to return to Cinnamo's willing embrace. Except it wasn't willing. She did it out of fear of the consequences if she failed to please.

He pulled away from her and she looked at him in surprise. "What is it, MyJack?" It was her compromise name for him. She had trouble getting away from saying 'my master', and 'Jack' was too familiar for a slave to call her owner, and "MyJack" had just sort of happened. It had become endearing, as if she had possession of him instead of the other way around.

"Nothing."

"Have I displeased you?"

"Never," he smiled at her, then sobered. "Are you still afraid of me?" An odd question he knew. As her master he shouldn't care what she felt about anything, but as himself he needed to know if things had gotten any better for her since her capture.

Her eyes widened in surprise. "N-no, MyJack." When she saw he was pleased with the answer, she continued. "You are not at all as they said you were."

"Who?"

"In the marketplace after you came, they said you disciplined with your hands because you liked hurting people. You were quite the talk of the town, and not just because you are from Cheyenne." She smiled at him then, as if it were a silly notion. "I have seen you now, and I know you do not enjoy it."

"They were talking about me all the way over in Adel?" He was surprised to hear that; there must still be communications between the citizens then.

She lowered her eyes. "I am from Brekke, not Adel, MyJack."

"What? Why would they enslave their own people?" He had not thought to ask at the time, but it made sense now why she had been concerned about her name. Her family was here where they might hear it, not far away in Adel.

She nipped her lip between her teeth. "I could not tell them I was from Brekke. I was captured in a place I should not have been. Our family farms the herbs. Like many others, we have secret fields high in the hills where the herbs grow best. The border moves with the fighting, and our fields were technically on the Adel side. A Brekke citizen on enemy soil would be condemned as a traitor." She looked up at him suddenly, as if he might turn her in. "I am not! I swear I am not! I was just tending our field!"

He squeezed her shoulder. "I believe you." He expanded the gesture to a hug to console her, and she leaned gratefully against him. What a situation! Die as a traitor or be enslaved in your own land.

Another thought occurred to him. "Carter likes to grow things," he told her. "Would you talk to her about how to grow the herbs when she is done in her bath? I think it would be good for her to try to learn something, it will make her more confident."

Cinnamo lifted her head and smiled. "You are so good to us, MyJack, to think about how we mayree feel."

He tucked her head back down on his shoulder and closed his own eyes, unable to face the irony. In this place, he, with a reputation for beating the crap out of people with his bare hands for next to no provocation, was considered a good and kind master.

~oOo~

Cinnamo took Carter under her wing, explaining everything in detail plain enough for a simple mind. They could not have asked for a better setup. No one was suspicious of Carter or any questions she might ask or repeat. Jack took to bringing just one or the other out with him for the day to serve him, leaving the other to tend the little garden Carter practiced with. Cheyenne soon had what they needed to grow another herb. There was only one left that they were completely dependent on Adel/Brekke for, and they started trading for more of that and less of the others, switching over as quickly as they could explain to their trading partners.

Back on Earth, they were making progress but the plague was still winning, killing more than they could save. Every possible plant was turned to making ingredients or mixing them into the cure. Giant vats, formerly used for oil, gas, or other liquids, had been scrubbed clean and held huge amounts of the cure, complete except for the critical last component.

~oOo~ A Mistake Made in Front of a Free Man Must Be Punished in Front of Him

The silence was sudden, as all attention abruptly focused. Shuffling of animals in the stalls outside the demonstration room became audible as the hush lengthened. Though the room was fairly crowded – Kelta's handler was showing off prize rahi to his lord's entourage – no one moved or spoke. It felt warm, though just moments before the fire had been stoked to better fend off the winter chill.

Carter crouched in the middle of the room, eyes wide, frozen as she waited to see what the consequences would be for her instinctive action.

Kelta's men, well trained, had not violated the guest's edict by taking hold of her as they would any other who dared touch their master; they showed response by blocking the door in case she attempted flight.

Even the rahi were still, looking around in the sudden silence.

Kelta's gaze left Carter's and traveled slowly down to his own garment, and the spot of liquid on it. She had not only touched him without orders, she had spilled his drink and stained his clothes. He turned his head slowly to his honored guest, silently asking the question.

The Colonel held still, no doubt trying to think of a way out of this. But what could he do?

It was just a reflex, a single moment of acting before thinking, when she jumped forward to stop the hot fireplace poker from falling on the rahi cub. Kelta would not see it that way.

She had transgressed not only in front of him, but *against* him, bumping his person and spilling his wine. If Jack had had any lower status, if he had not given the specific order that no man but he was to touch his women, Carter would already be feeling Kelta's retribution. The host was being gracious and allowing his guest to handle the situation.

*A transgression in front of a free man must be punished in front of him.* There was no escape this time, no hiding in another room to tickle painless screams from her. Kelta would watch his honor being satisfied.

Kelta, who had broken the maid's hands, and left them that way, for spilling wine without touching her master or staining his clothes. How much more would he demand for Carter's triple offense?

Kelta, who had seen Jack's "creativity" for West. How much less would he let Jack do now?

Kelta, who could and would ensure no urgent business distracted his guest from exacting due penalty this time, as it had for Benson and West. Carter had nowhere to be but at her master's service.

Jack thought desperately, but vainly. He had no choice. He had to act. And he couldn't let her off easy, either. If he didn't do enough to satisfy his host, Kelta would have his men – or likely his women, so as not to violate Jack's earlier edict – do worse.

He rose, watching Carter try to be brave before him, and wondered if he looked as horrified as she did. She'd be healed, physically, afterwards, but would she recover mentally from being assaulted by her own CO? Was this the end of SG-1?

He walked woodenly over to her, thinking briefly of using his feet instead of his hands so they would not have to look each other in the eye. So he would not have to look her in the eye, really, not see her forgiveness turn to pain and then maybe hatred. She had said she wouldn't hold it against him, back in the relative safety of their rooms, could she hold to that after he hurt her?

He bent, and his knee made that annoying 'old man' click that happened when he was too tense. The rahis' ears flicked to the sound, and he had an idea. If ever he had needed a diversion, it was now. He reached for Carter, taking her by the arms and leaning in to put his mouth by her ear.

"Kelta told me this morning that he and his men eat rahi," he breathed.

Around him, the animals came to attention, staring at him. Carter kept her eyes down, but her body was shifting from fear-tense to alert-for-action-tense. Kelta's men could not hear the words, but a few looked around to find what the rahi were responding to.

"The worst thing I can think of is to make you watch," he murmured. "Kelta said there are dead rahi in the cellars, and being roasted."

That was too much. Rahi, being eaten by humans? Their flesh cooked? The beasts around them exploded, baying and demanding to know if it was true. Several jumped through windows or just plain barreled through solid doors, heading for the cellars and kitchen to see for themselves.

As they passed, shouting the horrific news, the rahi still in their stalls reacted just as strongly. All around them, animals roared and leaped and charged while the humans hugged the walls and drew their weapons, looking anxiously out the windows for the threat.

Kelta had already waved his men into action. "This must wait, my friend, while we discover what has roused the beasts." He scowled. "If it is badgers within the city, I will tear out the eyes of the one who allowed it!"

Jack clutched his forehead, struck with a sudden pain. To her credit, his servant stopped cowering and supported his wavering body with her own.

"My friend! You are ill. Stay here, and I will send healing herbs to you at once." He turned and strode out, growling "what a day!" under his breath.

With the confirmation that *he* wasn't considered 'the one who allowed it', Anise's suggestion faded, and his head cleared. He'd been lucky the phrasing hadn't been exact, or he'd probably be dead. It was still better than *not* being dead if he was facing that eye-vs-child torture again.

Jack nodded, and he and Carter were soon alone in the room. Jack closed his eyes and exhaled in relief.

"That's it, Carter, you're going home."

She paused, looking pained. "Sir, you can't offend Kelta."

"He'll get over it. I'll, I'll get him some extra lemonade or something." He knew she wouldn't really buy it; apologies here were physical as well as verbal. There would be some significant concession in trade, or Kelta could even demand that Jack himself pay the penalty incurred by his slave.

"What if he breaks off trade? That will affect the balance of power with Adel, too." That had been discussed before the mission, too, the impact if either city broke off trade and escalated aggressions with the other. It could reduce the number of gate trips, the herbs available for trade, the price, any number of parameters.

"He won't," Jack waved his hand as if pushing the suggestion aside. "It's profitable, and he won't want Adel to have something he doesn't. I'll point out that if he cuts us off, Adel will get twice the business. If I have to, I'll threaten to trade weapons to Adel. The primary goal is safe. Worst case—"

"Worst case is you take the punishment instead," she finished for him, daring him to disagree.

"He won't do that either. It would put me in a bad mood for negotiating." He gave her a wry grin at that. She didn't respond. "Look, Carter, even if he does want that, I've been there before, I can handle it."

"So can I!"

"I know you can, but that's different."

"How?" she demanded, obviously bristling at the idea that a man could take more than a woman.

"It wouldn't be, it wouldn't be," he was getting emotional, he couldn't afford that right now. "one of *us* doing it to another. It would be one of us submitting to a hostile for a greater purpose. Trust me, I'd rather take it than dish it out to my own team."

She looked away briefly, and he thought he had her convinced. Even if he didn't, he was still her CO and it was his decision if he wanted to send her back.

"What about Cinnamo?"

"What about her? She didn't do anything."

She raised her eyebrow in a remarkable imitation of Teal'c. Carter and Cinnamo had split the personal service.

"Oh. Right. That." He thought about it. This wasn't nearly as hard a problem as getting Carter out. "She'll panic when she thinks she has to… serve." They'd kept up the impression that Jack was extremely violent in bed. It kept Cinnamo from asking questions and handily avoided any free woman wanting him as a boyfriend or being offered as a wife to solidify the relationship between Cheyenne and Brekke. It had also protected the dim-witted slave Carter; she had to learn to satisfy in bed before she could graduate to mealtime service.

"I'll be disgusted by Cinnamo's reaction and refuse to touch her. You're leaving, Carter. As soon as we figure out how."

She nodded. He turned, looking out the window as he listened to the anger of the beasts throughout the city. They'd found bodies of their kind, and were reacting about how he would if he found the mayor eating the neighbors. Maybe the diversion would last until the next delegation arrived tomorrow, and he could just send her off with them before Kelta noticed.

~oOo~

The animals rampaged through the night. The citizenry barricaded themselves in their houses as the soldiers took sniper positions on roof tops and shot down any beast that came into the open. The enemy army in Adel noticed the number of Brekke warriors being recalled to their home, and prepared a large-scale offensive to take advantage of the distraction.

Breakfast was served in Kelta's war room, attended by his top officers as the bulk of the soldiers continued to defend from the rooftop. A solid wall of slaves, three deep, surrounded them. Their bodies would absorb the attack if any rahi made its way into the fortress, the living shield being cheaper in a military sense than diverting soldiers to guard duty.

The officers ringed a map of the city, debating strategy to clear the beasts from their land. It would be a difficult proposition; there were a lot of animals and many places to hide. They had given up trying to figure out what had set off the incident. Jack had thought about telling them, but then he'd have to admit that he was the one who told the rahi that humans ate their kind.

"My friend Kelta," Jack spoke for the first time. He'd waited, interested to hear the strategy and tactics discussed. It told him a lot about what they would face if the situation devolved into combat between Earth and Brekke. The city had been at war for generations, and had developed some interesting infantry formations, but nothing new had come up in the last hour. It was time to speak up.

"Does my honored guest have a suggestion for the battle?" Kelta made the proper and polite motions, but quickly, he wanted to focus on the issue at hand.

"I have an alternative to offer my host," he bowed, signaling appropriately with his hands.

Kelta waved at the map. "Show us."

He told them about the holy man from Cheyenne who was even now on his way. It was said he could speak to beasts, and would identify what had caused the problem and what could be done about it.

Kelta stared at him for several seconds. His officers looked anywhere *but* at the once-esteemed guest. "I thank you for your contribution, my friend. As," he paused, finding the words, "a fallback, we here shall continue to create a battle plan. A good leader always has, as you say, a Plan B." He smiled stiffly, clearly thinking less of his visitor. "When will your witch doctor," he probably said something more appropriate, but his disbelief impacted the translation, "draw near? I will send an armed escort."

"I thank you, friend Kelta," Jack flipped his hands in the gesture that meant thanks-but-no-thanks. "but there is no need. No beast will attack him. If I may just tell the gatekeeper to expect him?"

Kelta sent a trio of slaves to deliver the message. One to actually speak, two others to scream for soldiers if a beast was seen. The wily animals had found ways into buildings to get to their new human prey, no one was safe anywhere.

Jack sat back as Kelta and his men continued to plan. After a couple of hours, the sounds outside suddenly rose, reaching a crescendo then falling off again. A trio of slaves rushed in with news from the rooftops: the animal attacks had ceased, and the beasts were not to be seen.

"I beg you, my friend," Jack said earnestly, even putting one hand directly on Kelta's sleeve. "Order your men to cease hostilities as well. It's important. The animals have stopped because they are listening to the holy man. If you attack while they stand down, it will make it hard to reach a truce."

"A truce? With animals?" Kelta caught himself. "My friend, you are overwrought. I know you are fond of beasts, and it must distress you more than I realized to see them cut down." He took Jack's hand from his sleeve and held it in both of his. "You must rest, friend."

Holding on to Jack's hand, he turned to his slaves, ordering a dozen of the males to take his esteemed guest to his quarters to rest, warning them that they all should give their lives before allowing so much as a scratch on their charge. He put Jack's hand into one of the slave's, and others surrounded him.

"Kelta, listen to me!"

Kelta waved, and the slaves started to pull him away.

Jack had to do something. He couldn't let Burro and the others be destroyed because he had needed a diversion. He'd honestly thought that they could reach a truce as Adel had, and actually improve things for both sides in the long term. Whomever they had sent to play the holy man was doing his part; and Jack was the only one who could get Kelta to cooperate.

"Cease hostilities until you talk to the holy man or Cheyenne will suspend trade with Brekke!" He had to yell it, they had him near the door already. No slave delayed in following orders from the fearsome Kelta.

Kelta waved, and they hesitated, but kept him where he was. "You are overwrought, friend," he began slowly. "Speaking nonsense. Your superiors in Cheyenne will not support you; they will understand my actions, and that I could not leave my people in jeopardy."

"There is no danger right now. The rahi attacks have stopped. Cheyenne will be angry that you ignored me, their ambassador. Worse," he warmed to it now, he might have it here. "your actions will show that you don't respect our religion or our holy man. It will be very hard," he resisted using the word impossible, just in case, "to resume any trade after such an insult."

Kelta was silent, face growing redder by the moment. He wanted to press the advantage, and it took a moment to decide that he dare not. Men who survived the rahi attacks could be healed, and he did not want Adel to have access to Cheyenne when Brekke did not. He made a gesture, and the slaves released him. "Very well. Friend. We will stand down until we speak with your holy man." He sent another trio of slaves with the order, then resumed his planning session. He hadn't promised not to think about what he'd do when the violence resumed.

General Hammond sent him a gift. Them a gift. The holy man turned out to be none other than Teal'c, and he was attended by Daniel. When they were training the Adel team, it had been decided that any of SG-1 would get mixed receptions that could hinder negotiations and would not be sent back. Even if that had also changed without his knowledge, they would not have been sent to Brekke. Personnel had been assigned to one city or the other, but not both, to avoid upsetting the cities, so he had not seen either of them in a long time. And he'd never seen them like this.

Teal'c looked otherworldly with gold swirls and symbols painted over his face and his arms where they were visible outside gold lame robes. It also camouflaged the permanent gold symbol on his forehead. Daniel was painted similarly, and his hair was dyed to match. They, at least, had been told that he was alive. Teal'c and Daniel each 'blessed' him with hands on his shoulders and quiet words of joy in his ears.

They wasted no time, greeting Kelta and saying that it was exceptional to leave the monastery and they did not want to be away for long. Cheyenne's way of saying they did not want this new dynamic to become permanent unless it had to, and if it did, they could get extra concessions for it.

Teal'c told them the rahi had discovered that the humans were eating their kind and wearing their skins. Surely Kelta could understand their shock at such an abomination. He had spoken to them, and offered a truce. Both sides would agree not to harm the other. The rahi would remain free, living in the hills as they chose. They would bring extra kills to agreed locations, and the humans would leave bales of straw in exchange. A very simple contract. There was only one additional consideration; any human caught wearing rahi hide or eating rahi was fair game to be killed and eaten himself.

Kelta had listened dutifully to the whole presentation. "I respect your faith, and your belief that you have communicated with the beasts in this detail," he began formally. "Please forgive me if I hesitate to place the safety of my people in an ability I have never seen."

"Fair enough," Teal'c agreed. "Let us go to your rooftop and I will call out to them for you."

They trooped up there, surrounded by the barrier of slaves for safety. Teal'c asked Kelta to name three objects that could be found in the hills and carried by a rahi. He chose a river stone, a yahi flower, and a branch from a okri tree. Teal'c yelled to the rahi to bring those things.

Shortly, an animal appeared at the edge of the clearing. He raised his massive head and bit off a sizeable branch from a live tree. Jack, on the rooftop, smiled at this deliberate show of strength. The animal picked up the branch and walked toward the wall, soon accompanied by another with a flowery bush in its mouth and a third with something dark, presumably the river stone. When they neared the place where the visible marks of weapon fire hitting the ground began, Teal'c called out to them to stop.

"You are now out of range of the human's weapons. A few steps closer and they would be able to reach you." One soldier angrily moved toward Teal'c, but was warned off by Daniel and Jack. "The humans give you this information as proof of their desire to negotiate. Please leave the items where you are and retreat so the humans can examine them."

They did as asked, and Kelta sent out nervous slaves to retrieve the objects. It took three men to pull the branch back. Kelta was impressed. Daniel suggested sending any rahi still in the city out to their brethren. It would clear the city and also look like a good will gesture to the rahi. Kelta couldn't see how that could be done. Teal'c shook his head sadly and turned to yell into the city that the gates would open and the rahi could safely exit.

There was a pause after the gate opened when nothing happened, and Kelta began to smirk. Then a shadow rushed through, racing by in fear that it was a ruse. The animal made it safely to the woods, and was soon followed by another and another. After several went by unimpeded, a group appeared, very large animals ringing many small ones. This must be the adults bringing the cubs through. They growled their warning, and Teal'c translated.

"They warn you that if you break your word and injure these cubs, they will take an equal number of your cubs."

Kelta looked appropriately mortified at the thought.

"They care as much about their children as you do about yours," Daniel reproved gently.

With a few more demonstrations on both sides, the negotiations were completed. Teal'c and Daniel wanted to take their leave. Kelta wanted the ability to talk to animals for himself and his men.

"It can only be given to a true believer, and even then there is a cost," Teal'c told him.

"What cost?" Kelta focused on that first.

Teal'c swept back his robes, showing the pouch on his belly, the edges of which were highlighted in gold and emphasized that it was still an opening into his body.

They were taken aback, as expected, and backed off wanting it for their own men when it was reiterated that even this only worked for true believers. A nonbeliever would not survive the experience. Kelta then wanted Teal'c to stay. In keeping with their roles, they refused, saying they wanted to get back to their monastery and would not have left other than for such a valuable ally. They eventually offered to grant the gift to O'Neill, who was already staying with him.

In the privacy of O'Neill's bedroom, where they were ostensibly performing the ritual, the three men had a quick conference. Teal'c told him they had makeup that would simulate a pouch for him. They would use a field call to get Carter to enter during the procedure, and then demand that she return with them to be studied because she had seen the ritual and lived when other nonbelievers had died instantly. They would suggest that her idiocy had protected her. If Kelta still insisted that Teal'c stay, Daniel would leave with Carter. If he tried to keep them both, they could say that holding both holy men against their will was an act of war against Cheyenne.

Jack thanked them both, incredibly relieved. It had been harder and harder to protect Carter; how long could it possibly take to teach her just to serve in bed and at meals? They talked quietly for a while as they applied the makeup. It puckered up his skin and felt like being pinched, but it was a fair imitation of Teal'c's pouch. They made it red instead of gold to look new and less official. For added effect, Jack let out a couple of loud groans, and Daniel covered a flashlight with a blue cloth and shone it under the door. Teal'c moved to the doorway and grunted a mechanical sound. It had long been common to use bird-calls and such in the field to communicate; this was their adaptation for use when inside or on space ships.

Carter responded, as expected, and the moment she was inside Teal'c pushed her to the floor. Daniel slammed the door, paused a moment, then poured a pouch of animal blood there so some would leak to the other side. Cinnamo started screaming, and they heard men rushing in to help. They dithered about, unsure whether to interrupt the ritual or not. They pushed the edge of a decorative sculpture under the door to jam it and enjoyed some pleasant time as a foursome again.

They put a red gel in Carter's eyes, ears, and nose to simulate bleeding. They opened the door and sent Jack out first, looking appropriately awed after his gift, and gently holding a hand over his belly. Kelta himself was waiting with his guards. Jack lifted his shirt to show the raw, red wound. Kelta bowed his head in respect. Cinnamo, huddled in the far corner, whimpered through the hand that covered her mouth. Teal'c came out next, looking regal and serene as always save for the blood on his hands, which he formally displayed to those present. Next, he took a cloth from his own garment, wiped his hands clean, and threw it into the fire. The flames leapt up in shades of green and blue, eliciting gasps.

"Proof of the true power used here," he explained.

Kelta nodded again, his awe of the Cheyenne religion growing.

"A mayra female laid eyes on the ritual."

"We saw her blood, esteemed Teal'c, and accept that she died for her error."

"This one did not die." Daniel, on cue, came out leading Carter, who acted dazed. She lolled her head, making the gel run down her cheek and everyone else in the room grimace.

"No uninitiated person has ever seen the power and lived before. Is there a sect of our religion practiced here in Brekke of which she may be part?"

Kelta shook his head. "No, esteemed Teal'c, there cannot be. Surely they would have come forward if they could speak to the beasts."

Daniel asked the key question. "Is there something unique about this slave woman?"

"She is an idiot, esteemed Daniel, having difficulty learning even the most basic of service."

Daniel turned to Teal'c. "Perhaps she was unable to fully comprehend what she saw, and was therefore only injured instead of killed?"

"Perhaps," Teal'c agreed. "We will take her with us to Cheyenne for study." It was a pronouncement, not a request.

~oOo~ One last surprise

It was finally the end of the day, exactly one week after his team departed, and Jack sighed as he settled in next to Cinnamo on the couch. It had been one of his worst days here, really. General West had returned, and as discussed with Hammond, Jack had taken him on a long walk around the compound and through the city. He made a point of not mentioning it to Kelta first; the man considered Jack somewhat squeamish and tended to prohibit extremes when he would be about.

Examples of cruelty abounded, as always, free men punishing slaves or just abusing them for fun. Body parts cut, burned, nearly severed. Women, and some men, casually raped in doorways or against railings. A typical day in downtown Brekke. It made him sick, but at least it had the same effect on West. Still, Jack made a point of telling him that this was normal and the violence he usually saw was people on their best behavior. West had been somber and pensive when he left.

Cinnamo snuggled next to him, knowing it often helped him relax. "Is there something troubling you, MyJack?"

He could hardly tell her that her city and lifestyle was sickening, so he talked about the other big issue in his life. "People are still sick in Cheyenne. We can't mix the herbs fast enough."

She was eager to help. "I can name the fastest mixers in the city, MyJack. They will speed you on the way, and show your people how to do it faster."

He smiled and put his cheek on the top of her head. "I didn't mean it literally. We are chronically short of asiral leaves; we make the rest and have to wait to get more leaves to finish it."

She was still beside him for a moment. "You could use ahira instead, MyJack. Or even jicara; that doesn't work as well, but it will do if the others are unavailable."

"What?" he pulled back to see her face. "We can use other things besides asiral leaves?" He was stunned, and angry in a way, to hear it. They had stopped asking when they were told for the main ingredients that there was no alternative. They should have asked for every single ingredient, especially when Cinnamo and Carter started talking about the plants.

"Asiral is a sweetener, MyJack," she explained. "The elixir must be drunk to reach internal injuries or sickness, and it is very bitter without sweetening. Other things can suffice to ease the taste."

His head spun. A *sweetener*! Earth had what it needed, ready and waiting. Dying people wouldn't care how bitter the saving medicine was. He could be out of here today! Well, ok, not until Cheyenne proved what Cinnamo said, but soon.

He grinned at Cinnamo. He had long planned to give her back to her husband when he left. He'd told her that on the night Carter left, and promised not to sleep with her as evidence. Laughed and told her that if that didn't prove a man's sincerity, nothing would. They'd gone comfortably back to their routine. She was his, after all, and he could do anything he wanted with her. She could go home soon, too.

He pulled out his radio and made the call.

~oOo~ Bitter, indeed

It took just hours for Earth to confirm what Cinnamo had said; they administered some sample doses of the concoction without the sweetener and cured victims. They expanded the usage and monitored the patients for a few days to make sure. In less than a week, the remaining patients on Earth were just the ones who were physically hard to get to with the cure. Remote areas and such.

Jack O'Neill prepared to take his leave. It wasn't as happy as he had imagined. Earth would continue to trade with Adel and Brekke, but in much lower volume. Earth wanted to discuss trading other things, but neither Adel nor Brekke believed it would be enough. Their economies had been based on war before turning to agriculture, and both expected they would go back to what they knew. Trade with Earth would be a bonus only, not depended upon for support. They promised to wait and see, but prepared for hostilities to resume.

Kelta had already gone back to planning attacks on Adel, and Mackintosh said that the ruling council in Adel was returning the favor. Most of the soldiers on both sides had been diverted to harvesting herbs for lucrative sales to Cheyenne, each keeping just a guard force at their borders. The armies had been recalled from where they ranged further and further afield as crops were picked clean, and now they were training for battle once again. Jack and Mackintosh had both failed to convince the cities to trade with each other for anything, and they could not honestly promise that Earth would permanently trade enough to support their two economies. It was only a matter of time before the Forever Feud would resume.

He sighed, telling himself that some things had changed for the better. There were no slaves in Adel anymore. Both sides – so far, anyway – intended to continue the return of prisoners immediately after battle instead of enslaving them. And the rahi were free now. He had made a difference, even if he had been unable to end the permanent war these two cities were involved in.

He looked forward to returning Cinnamo to her family. At least *that* would be a happy ending, a nice way to end his stay here. She was ready, and so was he. He gave her a hug and wished her well, deciding that it was best to do that here in the privacy of his quarters instead of in front of her husband. They walked out into the overcast afternoon and headed out of the compound.

Her husband met them on a hilltop they had agreed upon, partway between the family farm and the Stargate. He was backed by a trio of men who looked to be his brothers, brought for caution. Jack and Cinnamo stepped away from the Earth delegation to meet them.

Kirana smiled fondly at his wife, then waved her down into the crouch of a slave.

Jack's own smile turned to anger. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

Kirana was surprised at his vehemence. "Once a mayra, always a mayra."

"She's your wife!" Jack could not believe his ears.

"She was," he agreed. "And she will be a treasured mayra. I will never sell her, and I will not hurt her beyond necessary discipline."

Not hurt her beyond… Oh, no, this was not happening. Was not *going* to happen. "I changed my mind, I'm keeping her myself. *I* won't hurt her at all."

Cinnamo made the signal to request to speak, waiting for both men to give permission. She kept her head down. "Please, MyJack, leave me here."

"You'll be a slave. In Cheyenne, you can be free." Jack stepped closer, his voice softening. "You can go where you want, do what you want. No one will own you, not me, not anyone."

"What I want is to see my son grow up, MyJack. I can only do that here."

"Bring him with you. You'll be *free,* Cinnamo."

"Can I take him from his home and his father? No, MyJack, this is best. Please, leave me here."

"Enough." Kirana made a gesture and she obediently stopped talking. "You have heard her." He glanced beyond, to the Earth contingent watching from a few yards back. "Will you kill me to take an unwilling mayra?"

Jack looked down at Cinnamo and let the emotions wash over him. Slavery was wrong, so wrong. But it was what she wanted. If he took her by force, she could just tell Hammond and he would send her right back. Her husband was not a bad man based on what she had told Jack about him, just a product of his environment. This same, stupid planet that seemed to do nothing but hurt people. He closed his eyes briefly, and gave a small shake of his head.

Jack turned away.

"You may return in a year. If there is a child, it will be weaned by then and you can take it."

Jack froze, still facing away, and closed his eyes again. These people just could not imagine one person not hurting another, could they? "There is no child," he said without turning around. "She is a good woman. She was my friend, nothing more. Think about letting her be your friend, too." Those few paltry words were all he could think of to help her. He never should have given her the chance to go home.

He strode back to the Earth team, thinking about that, and walked in silence with them to the gate. They, and Mackintosh's crew, were the last to leave, Adel and Brekke both wanting assurances that the other side no longer had their ambassador. They were waiting near the platform.

Mackintosh nodded at him, and he nodded back. "Not your fault," Jack said.

Mackintosh nodded again, but his lips were pursed with emotion and he couldn't speak in return.

Lansing came over and offered his hand. "Glad you made it, Colonel."

"Wouldn't have happened without you," Jack shook his hand.

"Cheer up, guys, you'll be heroes," one of the messenger team was telling Otto and Landon.

They looked mortified. Otto turned to Mackintosh. "They won't, will they, sir? I don't want, I mean, I can't, I just… I don't feel like a hero." He looked more haunted than happy.

This was the time for the experienced Colonel to share a few words of wisdom with valiant teams who'd been through the wringer. If he had any. "Never met anyone who did. The whole 'hero' stuff only comes after you get through a lot of nasty crap, and usually you're thinking about the nasty crap and not the appreciation for getting it done." Not elegant, but usually true.

"Thanks, sir. And sorry," Otto said.

"You did what you had to do, Otto. We all did." They all looked at him with varying emotions on their faces. He waved them toward the gate, not wanting to continue this touchy-feely stuff.

One by one, they saluted him and went through the gate until he was left with just the gate guards themselves. They'd be coming with; Cheyenne was not going to hold the gate indefinitely. Their gear was neatly packed in a satchel on the platform.

Jack took one last look around. So much had happened here. The original, innocent mission. The pitiless Keyna trying to break him to slavery. Pragmatic Blenna using him to train his beasts. The terrifying Bruto turning into a friend. Liberating the slaves, expecting them to suicide then seeing FreeMan and the others hold their freedom instead. Being handed over for a brutal execution. Being saved, then shut away by his own people. Coming back to the other city, and a different kind of captivity with the odious Kelta. Sweet innocent Cinnamo enslaved by her own husband. So many chances to make a difference, some working out, others not. The whole thing cycling back to the unending war.

He'd thought of one last chance he could offer them. It had come to him on the walk to the gate, as he bitterly thought about Cinnamo's fate and that of both cities. He opened the guards' pack and quickly found what he was looking for. He did not explain.

Jack turned a slow circle one last time, waving to the men from both cities, waiting in the nearby hills, watching to make sure that everyone left as promised, making sure the enemy had no advantage. He walked toward the gate, fiddling with the device he held, re-arming the Claymore mines the guards had inactivated, then setting them off.

"Colonel!" the Major in charge of the guard was shocked. "Why?"

"They both expect to go back to war. I'm just starting it for them." In the distance, voices and weapons fire was already audible. He didn't turn around to look. "They are low on the healing herbs after selling them to us. They won't be able to sustain the kind of battle they are used to for long without being able to heal the combatants. Maybe they'll be forced to work out a truce. Or change how they fight. Hopefully, *something* will change."

It was a chance, the only one he could think of. If he had done nothing, and they had been sensible enough to hold off on fighting until they stored up healing resources, things would have gone back to exactly how they had been. The Forever Feud, only bigger and more dramatic because of Jack O'Neill. Because he had set in motion the events that led to the prisoner exchange, which led to larger and stronger armies.

If he had done nothing, and they had gone right back to war, it would be just as it was now. No difference.

Maybe, just maybe, this last action would make the difference they really needed, and move them to end the war once and for all when they had to contend with real casualties, not just ones that were healed in one day.

He'd hope, but he wouldn't hold his breath.

~oOo~


End file.
